DORSET   DEAR 


BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR 

IN  A  NORTH  COUNTRY  VILLAGE 

THE   STORY  OF  DAN 

A  DAUGHTER  OF  THE   SOIL 

MAIME   O'   THE  CORNER 

FRIEZE  AND  FUSTIAN 

AMONG  THE   UNTRODDEN   WAYS 

MISS  ERIN 

THE   DUENNA  OF  A   GENIUS 

YEOMAN   FLEETWOOD 

PASTORALS  OF   DORSET 

FIANDER'S  WIDOW 

NORTH,   SOUTH,  AND   OVER  THE   SEA 

THE   MANOR  FARM 

CHRISTIAN  THAL 

LYCHGATE  HALL 


DORSET    DEAR 


IDYLLS   OF  COUNTRY  LIFE 


M.  E.  FRANCIS 

(MRS.  FRANCIS   BLUNDELL) 

"  Vor  Do'set  dear, 
Then  gi'e  woone  cheer, 
D'ye  hear  ?  ^oone  cheer !  " 

—WILLIAM  BARNES 


LONGMANS,     GREEN,     AND     CO. 

91  AND  93  FIFTH  AVENUE,   NEW  YORK 

LONDON  AND    BOMBAY 


These  stories  originally  appeared  in  Country  Life,  The  Graphic, 
Longman's  Magazine  and  The  Illustrated  London  News.  The 
Author's  thanks  are  due  to  the.  Editors  of  these  periodicals  for  their 
kind  permission  to  reproduce  them. 


Co  tbe 

OF 

LADY    SMITH-MARRIOTT, 

KIND   NEIGHBOUR  AND   TRUE   FRIEND. 


2135580 


CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

WITCH  ANN i 

A  RUNAWAY  COUPLE 2$ 

POSTMAN  CHRIS 43 

KEEPER  GUPPY 60 

THE  WORM  THAT  TURNED 89 

OLF  AND  THE  LITTLE  MAID tog 

IN  THE  HEART  OF  THE  GREEN 127 

THE  WOLD  STOCKIN' 149 

A  WOODLAND  IDYLL 168 

THE  CARRIER'S  TALE 192 

MRS.  SlBLEY  AND  THE  SEXTON 2OJ 

THE  CALL  OF  THE  WOODS 222 

THE  HOME-COMING  OF  DADA 246 

THE  MAJESTY  OF  THE  LAW 256 

THE  SPUR  OF  THE  MOMENT 279 

"  A  TERR'BLE  VOOLISH  LITTLE  MAID  " 296 

SWEETBRIAR    LANE 317 


WITCH  ANN. 

ANN  KERLEY  had  lived  in  great  peace  and  contentment 
for  more  than  seventy-three  years.  Her  neighbours  con- 
sidered her  a  good  plain  'ooman,  who  always  had  a  kind 
word  for  every  one,  and  was  so  ready  to  do  a  good  turn 
for  another  body  as  heart  could  wish.  But,  lo  and  behold  ! 
one  fine  morning  old  Ann  Kerley  awoke  to  find  herself  a 
witch. 

The  previous  day  had  been  sultry  and  wild,  with  spells 
of  fierce  sunshine  that  smote  down  upon  honest  people's 
heads  as  they  toiled  in  cornfield  or  potato-plot,  bringing 
out  great  drops  of  sweat  on  sunburnt  faces,  and  forcing 
more  than  one  labourer  to  supplement  the  shade  and 
comfort  of  his  broad  chip  hat  by  a  cool  moist  cabbage 
leaf.  Withal  furious  gusts  of  wind  rose  every  now  and 
then — storm  wind,  old  Jan  Belbin  said,  and  he  was  con- 
sidered wonderful  weather-wise — wind  that  set  the  men's 
shirt  sleeves  flapping  for  all  the  world  like  the  sleeves  of  a 
racing  jockey,  and  blew  the  women's  aprons  into  the  air, 
and  twisted  the  maids'  hats  round  upon  their  heads  if  they 
so  much  as  crossed  the  road  to  the  well.  Yet  this  wind 
would  drop  as  suddenly  as  it  had  sprung  up  ;  the  land 
would  lie  all  bathed  in  fiery  heat,  and  a  curious  sense  of 
uneasiness  and  expectancy  would  seem  to  pervade  the 


2  DORSET  DEAR 

whole  of  Nature.  The  very  beasts  were  disquieted  in 
their  pasture  ;  the  corn  stood  up  straight  and  stiff,  each 
ear,  as  it  were,  on  the  alert ;  not  a  leaf  stirred  in  hedge- 
row or  tree-top ;  and  then  "  all  to  once,"  as  Jan  Belbin 
pointed  out,  the  storm  wind  sprang  up  again,  tossing  the 
golden  waste  of  wheat  hither  and  thither  like  a  troubled 
sea,  and  making  every  individual  branch  and  twig  creak 
and  groan. 

Twilight  was  at  last  closing  in  with  brooding  stillness, 
and  a  group  of  lads,  who  had  been  working  for  an  hour 
or  two  in  the  allotments,  gathered  idly  round  the  gate, 
gossiping,  and  some  of  them  smoking,  before  proceeding 
homewards.  It  was  too  dark,  as  Joe  Pilcher  declared,  to 
see  the  difference  between  a  'tater  and  a  turnip,  and  'twas 
about  time  they  were  steppin'  anyways.  He  was  in  the 
act  of  relating  some  interesting  anecdote  with  regard  to 
last  Saturday's  practice  in  the  cricket  field,  when  he  broke 
off,  and  pointed  up  the  stony  path  which  led  past  the 
allotments. 

"  Hullo !     Whatever's  that  ? "  he  cried. 

The  bent  outline  of  a  small  figure  could  be  seen  creeping 
along  the  irregular  line  of  hedge.  It  was  apparently  hump- 
backed, and  wore  a  kind  of  hood  projecting  over  its  face. 

"'Tis  a  wold  hag,  seemin'ly,"  said  Jim  Ford,  craning 
forward  over  the  top  rail. 

"  There ! "  cried  Joe,  "  I  took  it  for  a  sprite,  but  I  don't 
know  as  I  shouldn't  be  just  so  much  afeared  of  a  witch 
any  day.  It  be  a  witch,  sure." 

"  Don't  be  a  sammy,"  interposed  an  older  man.  "  'Tis 
nothin'  but  some  poor  wold  body  what  has  been  gatherin' 


s 

WITCH  ANN  3 

scrofF.  They've  felled  a  tree  up-along  in  wood,  an'  she've 
a-been  a-pickin'  up  all  as  she  can  lay  hands  on  for  her  fire. 
There,  'tis  wold  Ann  Kerley.  I  can  see  her  now.  She've 
a-got  a  big  nitch  o'  sticks  upon  her  back,  an'  she  do  croopy 
down  under  the  weight  on't,  an'  she've  a-tied  her  handker- 
cher  over  her  bonnet,  poor  body,  to  keep  it  fro'  blowin' 
away.  There's  your  hag  for  you,  Joe  !  " 

"  I  be  afeared,  I  say,"  insisted  Joe,  feigning  to  tremble 
violently.  He  considered  himself  a  wag,  and  had  quite  a 
following  of  the  village  good.-for-noughts.  "  'Tis  a  witch, 
sartin  sure  'tis  a  witch.  Don't  ye  go  for  to  overlook  I, 
Ann  Kerley,  for  I  tell  'ee  I  won't  a-bear  it ! " 

As  the  unconscious  Ann  drew  nearer  he  squatted  down 
behind  the  gate-post,  loudly  announcing  that  he  was  that 
frayed  he  was  fair  bibbering.  Two  or  three  of  the  others 
made  believe  to  hide  themselves  too,  pretending  to  shiver 
in  imitation  of  their  leader,  and  peering  out  like  him  be- 
tween the  bars  of  the  gate. 

Such  unusual  proceedings  could  not  fail  to  attract  the 
old  woman's  attention,  and  she  paused  in  astonishment 
when  she  reached  the  spot. 

"  Why,  whatever  be  to  do  here  ?  "  she  inquired. 

Joe  uttered  a  kind  of  howl,  and  burrowed  into  the  hedge. 

"  She  be  overlookin'  of  we,"  he  shouted.  "  The  witch 
be  overlookin'  of  we." 

"  Don't  ye  take  no  notice,  my  dear  woman,"  said  Abel 
Bond,  the  man  who  had  before  spoken.  "  They  be  but  a 
lot  o'  silly  bwoys  a-talkin'  nonsense." 

"Witch!"  cried  Joe. 

"Witch  !  witch ! "  echoed  the  rest. 


4  DORSET  DEAR 

Ann  looked  from  one  to  the  other  of  the  grinning  faces 
that  kept  popping  up  over  the  rail,  and  disappearing  again. 

"Whatever  be  they  a-talkin'  on  ?"  she  gasped. 

"  You  be  a  witch,  Ann,"  cried  Joe.  "  If  you  was  served 
right  you'd  be  ducked  in  the  pond.  E-es,  that  you  would." 

A  small  boy,  fired  with  a  desire  to  distinguish  himself, 
picked  up  a  clod  of  earth,  and  flung  it  at  her  with  so  true 
an  aim  that  it  grazed  her  cheek. 

"  Take  that,  witch !  "  he  cried. 

Joe,  not  to  be  outdone,  threw  another ;  pellets  of  earth 
and  even  small  pebbles  began  to  assail  the  old  woman 
from  the  whole  line. 

Abel  Bond  promptly  came  to  the  rescue,  knocking  the 
ringleaders'  heads  together,  and  impartially  distributing 
kicks  and  cuffs  among  the  remainder. 

"Bad  luck  to  the  witch!"  cried  the  irrepressible  Joe, 
wriggling  himself  free ;  and  the  shout  was  taken  up  by  the 
rest,  even  as  they  dodged  the  avenger. 

"  Bad  luck,  yourself,"  retorted  poor  Ann,  trembling  with 
wrath  and  alarm.  "  I'm  sure  nar'n  o'  ye  do  deserve  such 
very  good  luck  arter  insultin'  a  poor  wold  'ooman  what 
never  did  ye  no  harm." 

And  she  went  on  her  way,  grumbling  and  indignant. 

But  when  she  had  reached  her  own  little  house  in  the 
"  dip,"  and  had  walked  up  the  flagged  path  between  the 
phlox  bushes  and  the  lavender,  and  pussy  had  come  rub- 
bing against  her  legs  in  greeting,  her  anger  cooled  ;  and  by 
the  time  her  kettle  had  begun  to  sing  over  a  bright  wood 
fire,  and  she  had  laid  out  her  modest  repast  of  bread  and 
watercress,  she  fairly  laughed  to  herself. 


WITCH  ANN  5 

"  Lard  !  they  bwoys  be  simple !  "  she  said.  "  They  did 
call  I  a  witch,  along  o'  my  havin'  tied  my  handkercher  over 
my  head.  Abel  did  give  it  to  'em,  but  I  reckon  he  didn't 
hurt  'em  much.  Bwoys !  there,  they  do  seem  so  hard  as 
stoones  very  near.  '  Witch ! '  says  they.  Well,  that's  a 
notion." 

She  chuckled  again,  and  set  down  a  saucer  of  milk  for 
the  cat  to  lap. 

"  They'll  be  callin'  you  a  witch  next,  puss,"  said  she 
laughing. 

Ann  carried  her  bucket  to  the  well  as  usual  next  morn- 
ing, feeling  rather  more  cheerful  than  was  her  custom. 
Rain  had  fallen  shortly  after  daybreak,  but  the  sky  was 
now  clear  and  limpid,  and  the  air  cool.  On  her  way  to 
the  well  her  attention  was  caught  by  a  loud  clucking  in  her 
neighbour's  garden,  and  looking  across  the  dividing  hedge 
she  descried  a  hen  violently  agitating  herself  inside  a  coop, 
while  a  brood  of  yellow  downy  ducklings  some  few  hours 
old  paddled  in  and  out  of  a  pool  beside  the  path. 

"  Well,  of  all  the  beauties ! "  cried  Ann,  clapping  her 
hands  together  until  the  bucket  rattled  on  her  arm ;  "  why, 
Mrs.  Clarke,  my  dear,  you  must  have  hatched  out  every 
one — 'tis -a  wonderful  bit  o'  luck." 

"  E-es,  indeed,"  agreed  Mrs.  Clarke,  "  hatchin'  out  so  late 
an'  all.  I  hope  I  may  do  well  wi'  'em." 

"  I  hope  so,  that  do  I,"  agreed  Ann  heartily,  and  hobbled 
on  towards  the  well. 

One  or  two  women  were  there,  who  responded  to 
her  greeting  with  a  coldness  which  she  did  not  at  once 
realise. 


6  DORSET  DEAR 

"Fine  rain  this  marnin',"  she  remarked  cheerfully,  as 
her  bucket  went  clattering  down  the  well ;  "  we've  had  a 
good  drop  to-year,  haven't  we  ?  Farmers  may  grumble, 
but,  as  I  do  say,  'tis  good  for  the  well.  We'll  be  like  to 
draw  a  bit  less  chalk  nor  we  do  in  the  dry  seasons.  There 
be  all  sarts  in  our  well,  bain't  there?  Water  an1  chalk, 
an'  a  good  few  snails.  There,  when  I  do  hear  folks 
a-talkin'  about  the  Government  doin'  this  an  doin'  that, 
I  do  say  to  myself,  I  wish  Government  'ud  see  to  our 
well." 

Usually  such  a  sally  would  have  been  applauded,  but,  to 
poor  old  Ann's  astonishment  and  chagrin,  her  remark  was 
received  on  this  occasion  in  solemn  silence.  To  hide  her 
discomfiture  she  peered  into  the  moss-grown  depths  of  the 
well. 

"  Don't  ye  go  a-lookin'  into  it  like  that,  Ann,"  cried  a 
vinegary-faced  matron  in  an  aggressive  tone.  "  Chalky 
water,  e-es,  an'  water  wi'  snails  in't  is  better  than  no  water 
at  all.  'Tis  sure — 'tis  by  a  long  ways." 

"  Ah,  'tis  ! "  agreed  the  others,  eyeing  Ann  suspiciously. 

She  straightened  herself  and  looked  round  in  surprise. 

"  I  never  said  it  wasn't,"  she  faltered.  "  Why  do  ye  look 
at  me  so  nasty,  Mrs.  Biles  ? " 

"Oh,  ye  don't  know,  I  s'pose?"  retorted  Mrs.  Biles 
sourly.  "  How  be  your  'taters,  Ann  Kerley,  this  marnin'  ? " 

"  Doin'  finely,  thanks  be,"  said  poor  Ann,  brightening 
up,  as  she  considered  the  conversation  was  taking  a  more 
agreeable  turn. 

"  Not  blighted,  I  s'pose  ? "  put  in  a  little  fat  woman  who 
had  hitherto  been  silent. 


WITCH  ANN  7 

"  Not  a  sign  o'  blight  about  'em,"  said  Mrs.  Kerley  joy- 
fully. "  There,  I  did  just  chance  to  look  at  'em  when  I 
did  first  get  up,  an'  they're  beautiful." 

"That's  strange,"  remarked  Mrs.  Biles,  with  a  meaning 
sniff.  "  Every  single  'tater  at  the  'lotments  be  blighted, 
they  do  tell  I.  Mrs.  Pilcher  did  say  when  her  husband 
went  up  there  this  marnin'  he  could  smell  'em  near  a 
quarter  of  a  mile  away." 

"  Dear,  to  be  sure  ! "  groaned  Ann,  sympathetically,  being 
quite  willing  to  condone  any  little  asperities  of  temper  on 
the  part  of  folks  suffering  from  such  a  calamity.  "  'Tis  a 
terr'ble  pity,  Mrs.  Biles.  There,  'tis  along  o'  the  'lotments 
layin'  out  so  open  like,  I  d'  'low.  Now  my  bit  o'  garden 
be  sheltered." 

The  little  fat  woman,  usually  a  meek  sort  of  body, 
snorted  fiercely. 

"'Tisn't  very  likely  as  your  garden  'ud  suffer,  Mrs. 
Kerley,"  she  cried,  in  a  voice  that  trembled  with  wrath. 
"Your  garden  is  safe  enough — an'  so  was  the  'lotments 
till  yesterday." 

"Well,  I  be  pure  sorry,  I'm  sure,"  said  Ann,  looking 
from  one  to  the  other  in  bewilderment.  "  'Tis  just  as  luck 
would  have  it,  I  s'pose." 

"  Luck,  indeed  !  "  cried  Mrs.  Biles  meaningly.  "  There's 
them  as  went  by  yesterday  as  wished  bad  luck,  an'  bad 
luck  did  come." 

Ann  fairly  gasped.  Mrs.  Biles  threw  out  her  hand 
warningly. 

"  Take  your  eyes  off  I,  Mrs.  Kerley.  Take  'em  off,  I 
say  !  I  bain't  a-goin'  to  have  'ee  overlookin'  of  I,  same  as 


8  DORSET  DEAR 

you  did  do  to  poor  Joe  Pilcher — 'tis  well  if  the  poor  bwoy 
don't  die  of  it." 

Ann  obediently  dropped  her  eyes,  a  nightmare-like 
sensation  of  oppression  overwhelming  her. 

"  I  d'  'low  ye  won't  deny  ye  did  overlook  Joe  Pilcher," 
went  on  Mrs.  Biles ;  "  there,  ye  did  no  sooner  turn  your 
back  yesterday,  nor  the  lad  was  took  wi'  sich  a  bad  pain 
in  his  innards  that  he  went  all  doubly  up  same  as  a  wold 
man." 

"Well,  that's  none  o'  my  fault,"  expostulated  Ann 
warmly,  for  even  a  worm  will  turn.  "  He've  a-been  eatin' 
summat  as  disagreed  wi'  he." 

"  Nothin'  o'  the  kind  !  "  cried  the  women  in  chorus. 

"  It  corned  so  sharp  as  a  knife,"  added  one,  "  all  twisty 
turny  ". 

"The  poor  bwoy  did  lie  upon  the  floor  all  night,"  put 
in  another,  "  a-pankin'  and  a-groanin'  so  pitiful.  '  Ann 
Kerley  has  bewitched  I,"  says  he.  E-es,  the  bwoy  come 
out  wi'  the  truth.  '  'Tis  Mother  Kerley  what  has  over- 
looked I,'  says  he." 

"  Well,"  returned  Ann  vehemently,  "  I  never  did  nothin' 
at  all  to  the  bwoy.  'Tis  nonsense  what  you  do  talk,  all  on 
you.  He've  a-been  eatin'  green  apples — that's  what  the 
matter  wi'  he." 

"  Green  apples !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Biles,  with  shrill  sar- 
casm. "  Dear,  to  be  sure,  if  a  bwoy  was  to  be  upset  every 
time  he  ate  a  green  apple,  there  wouldn't  be  a  sound  child 
in  village.  He  hadn't  had  above  five  or  six,  his  mother 
did  say  herself,  an'  he  can  put  away  as  many  as  fourteen 
wi'out  feelin'  the  worse  for  it.  Ye  must  agree  'tis  very 


WITCH  ANN  9 

strange,  Ann — there,  ye  did  say  out  plain  for  all  to  hear : 
'  Bad  luck,  yourself,"  says  you  to  the  innercent  bwoy.  '  Ye 
won't  be  like  to  have  such  veiy  good  luck,  nar'n  o'  you,' 
says  you,  an',  sure  enough,  there  be  the  'taters  blighted, 
an'  there  be  the  poor  bwoy  upset  in's  inside." 

"  I  didn't  really  mean  it,  neighbours,"  faltered  Ann, 
looking  piteously  round.  "  I  was  a  bit  vexed  at  the  time, 
an'  when  the  lads  did  start  a-floutin'  me  wi'  stones  an'  that, 
and  a-callin'  ill  names  and  a-wishin'  me  bad  luck,  I  just 
says  back  to  'em,  quick  l}ke,  '  Bad  luck,  yourself ! '  an1 
'twasn't  very  like  they'd  have  good  luck ;  but  I  didn't 
mean  it  in  my  heart — not  me,  indeed.  The  Lard  sees  I 
hadn't  no  thought  o'  really  wishin'  evil  to  nobody — that 
I  hadn't,  neighbours.  You  don't  believe  I  did  have,  do 
'ee  now,  Mrs.  Whittle  ? " — turning  in  despair  to  the  little 
woman  on  her  right — "  you,  what  has  knowed  I  sich  a  many 
year — you  did  ought  to  know  I  wouldn't  wish  no  harm  to 
nobody." 

Mrs.  Whittle  looked  sheepish  and  uncomfortable.  De- 
spite the  sinister  aspect  of  things,  her  heart  melted  at  her 
old  crony's  appeal. 

"  Why,  I  scarce  can  believe  it,"  she  was  beginning,  when 
Mrs.  Biles  struck  in  : — 

"  Deny  it  if  you  can,  Ann  Kerley.  There's  the  'taters 
blighted,  an'  there's  the  bwoy  took  bad,  an"  it's  you  what 
wished  'em  ill  luck.  What  can  ye  make  o'  that,  Mrs. 
Whittle  ?  Ye'll  'low  'tis  strange." 

Mrs.  Whittle  shook  her  head  dubiously,  and  Ann,  de- 
prived, as  she  thought,  of  her  only  ally,  threw  her  apron 
over  her  head,  and  wept  behind  it, 


10  DORSET  DEAR 

"  Don't  'ee  take  on,  Mrs.  Kerley,  that's  a  dear,"  said 
Mrs.  Whittle,  softening  once  more.  "'Twas  maybe  a 
chance  thing.  You  did  say  them  words  wi'out  thinkin' 
an"  they  did  come  true  to  be  a  warnin'  to  'ee.  We  do  all 
do  wrong  sometimes ;  this  'ere  did  ought  to  be  a  warn  in' 
to  all  on  us." 

"  I'm  sure  'twill  be  a  lesson  to  I,"  sobbed  Ann  inarticu- 
lately. "  So  long  as  I  do  live  I'll  never  say  such  things 
again.  'Twas  very  ill-done  o'  me  to  ha'  spoke  wi'out 
thought,  sich  a  wold  'ooman  as  I  be,  an'  so  near  my  end 
an'  all,  an'  the  Lard  has  chastised  I.  I  can't  do  more  nor 
say  I'm  sorry,  an'  I  hope  the  A'mighty  'ull  forgive  me." 

"  There,  the  'ooman  can't  say  no  fairer  nor  that,"  said 
Mrs.  Whittle,  looking  round  appealingly ;  "  she  can't  do 
more  nor  repent." 

"  Oh,  if  she  do  repent  it'll  be  well  enough,"  said  Mrs. 
Biles  darkly.  "  'Tis  to  be  hoped  as  she  do  repent.  But 
by  all  accounts  'tis  easier  for  to  begin  that  kind  o'  work 
nor  to  leave  it  off  again." 

She  turned  on  her  heel  with  this  parting  innuendo,  and, 
taking  up  her  full  bucket,  walked  away.  The  others 
followed  suit,  and  Ann,  left  alone,  sobbed  on  for  a  moment 
or  two  with  a  feeling  akin  to  despair,  and  then,  drawing 
down  her  apron,  wiped  her  eyes  with  it  sadly,  wound  up 
her  pail  from  the  depths  where  it  had  lain  forgotten,  and 
made  her  way  homewards. 

For  days  afterwards  she  was  ashamed  to  show  her  face, 
and  rose  at  extraordinarily  early  hours  in  order  to  procure 
her  supply  of  water,  and  crept  out  of  her  own  quarters  at 
dusk  to  make  her  necessary  purchases. 


WITCH  ANN  n 

One  morning,  about  a  week  after  the  affair  at  the  allot- 
ments, when  Ann  sallied  forth  as  usual  for  water,  she 
paused  incidentally  to  look  over  her  neighbour's  gate. 
The  hen-coop  was  still  in  view,  the  hen  cackling,  and  the 
ducklings  waddling  up  and  down  the  path.  But  how  few 
of  them  there  were !  Only  three  !  What  could  have  be- 
come of  the  others  ?  Possibly  they  were  squatting  at  the 
back  of  the  coop.  She  was  craning  her  head  round  in 
order  to  ascertain  if  this  were  the  case,  when  a  window  in 
Mrs.  Clarke's  house  was  thrown  open,  and  that  lady's 
voice  was  heard  in  angry  tones : — 

"  I've  catched  you  at  it,  have  I  ?  I've  catched  you  at 
it !  Well,  you  did  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself,  Ann 
Kerley.  To  try  an'  do  me  a  mischief — me,  as  has  been 
sich  a  good  neighbour  to  'ee." 

"  Why,  what's  the  matter  ? "  returned  Ann,  backing  away 
from  the  gate,  and  raising  dim,  distracted  eyes. 

"  I've  catched  you  in  the  veiy  act,"  continued  Mrs 
Clarke  vehemently.  "  Says  I  to  myself  when  the  duck- 
lin's  kep'  a-droppin'  off  like  that,  '  I  wonder  if  it  can  be 
Ann  ? '  says  I,  an'  then  I  thinks,  '  No,  it  never  can  be 
Ann ;  her  an'  me  was  always  friends,'  I  says.  Ah,  you 
ungrateful,  spiteful  creetur' ! " 

An  arm,  clad  in  checked  flannelette,  was  here  thrust  forth, 
and  the  fist  appertaining  thereto  emphatically  shaken. 

"  I'm  sure,"  protested  the  unfortunate  Ann,  staggering 
back  against  her  own  little  gate,  "  I  don't  know  whatever 
you  can  mean  by  such  talk,  Mrs.  Clarke ;  I  never  touched 
your  ducks.  I  be  a  honest  'ooman,  an'  I  wouldn't  take 
nothin'  what  didn't  belong  to  I." 


12  DORSET  DEAR 

"  I  don't  say  you  stole  'em,"  retorted  Mrs.  Clarke,  "  but 
I  say  you  overlooked  'em,  an'  that's  worse  ;  a  body  'ud 
know  what  to  be  at  if  'twas  only  a  thief  as  was  makin' 
away  wi'  'em,  but  when  'tis  a  witch — Lard,  whatever  is  to 
be  done  ?  I  couldn't  ha'  thought  ye'd  ha'  found  it  in  your 
heart  to  go  striking  down  they  poor  little  innercent  things. 
What  harm  did  they  do  ye  ?  Sich  beauties  as  they  was. 
But  there,  ye  must  go  gettin'  up  in  the  very  dummet  that 
ye  mid  overlook  the  poor  little  creetur's,  so  that,  one  after 
another,  they  do  just  croopy  down  an'  die." 

"Mrs.  Clarke,"  said  Anne,  solemnly  and  desperately, 
"  I  can't  tell  how  sich  a  thing  did  come  about — I  can't 
indeed.  'Tis  no  fault  o'  mine,  I  do  assure  ye.  I  wouldn't 
ha'  had  they  poor  little  duck  die  for  anything.  I  never 
wished  'em  ill.  I  was  admirin'  of  'em.  I  never  had  no 
other  thought." 

"Well,  see  here,"  returned  Mrs.  Clarke,  somewhat 
mollified.  "  Don't  ye  look  at  'em  at  all,  that's  a  good 
'ooman.  Maybe  'tis  no  fault  o'  yourn,  but  'tis  very 
strange,  Mrs.  Kerley,  what  do  seem  to  have  come  to  you 
to-year.  You  do  seem  to  bring  bad  luck,  though  you 
midn't  do  it  a-purpose." 

"  I'm  sure  I  don't,"  protested  Ann,  "  an'  I  can't  believe, 
Mrs.  Clarke,  as  a  body  can  do  bad  wi'out  knowin'  it." 

"  Well,  'tis  queer,  I  d'  'low,"  agreed  her  neighbour,  "  but 
when  a  body  sees  sich  things  for  theirsel's  as  do  happen 
along  o'  you,  they  can't  but  believe  their  own  eyes.  Ye 
mind  that  there  bar -hive  what  Mr.  Bridle  got  last 
month  ? " 

"  E-es,"  returned  Ann  feebly,  "  I  mind  it  well.     I  never 


WITCH  ANN  13 

see  sich  a  handsome  contrivance  nor  so  clever.  Mr.  Bridle 
showed  it  to  I." 

"  E-es,  I  d'  'low  he  did,"  agreed  the  other,  with  a 
certain  triumph.  "  I  d'  'low  ye  was  a-lookin'  at  it  a  long 
time." 

"  I  was,"  confessed  Ann,  with  a  sinking  heart. 

Mrs.  Clarke  nodded  portentously.  "  That's  it,"  she  said. 
"  The  bees  be  all  dead,  Mrs.  Kerley.  Bridle,  he  did  say 
to  I  yesterday,  '  I  couldn't  think,'  says  he,  '  whatever  took 
the  bees.  I  had  but  just  moved  them  out  of  the  wold 
skip  and  they  did  seem  to  take  to  the  bar-hive  so  nice,' 
he  says,  <  an'  now  they  be  all  a-dyin'  off  so  quick  as  they 
can.  I  couldn't  think,'  he  says,  '  what  could  be  the  reason, 
but  I  do  know  now.  I  do  know  it  was  a  great  mistake  to 
ha'  brought  Ann  Kerley  up  to  look  at  'em.' " 

"  Oh  dear,  oh  dear,"  cried  the  last-named  poor  old 
woman,  wringing  her  hands,  "do  he  really  think  I  did 
hurt  'em?" 

"  He  do,  indeed,"  said  Mrs.  Clarke  firmly.  "  There,  my 
dear,  it  do  seem  a  terr'ble  thing,  but  you  be  turned  into  a 
witch  seemin'ly,  whether  it  be  against  your  will  or  whether 
it  hain't." 

Ann  stood  motionless  for  a  moment,  her  hands  squeezed 
tightly  together,  her  face  haggard  and  drawn. 

"  I  think  I'll  go  indoor  a  bit,"  she  said,  after  a  pause. 
"  I'll  go  indoor  an'  set  me  down.  I  don't  know  what  to 
do.  Mrs.  Clarke ?" 

"  E-es,  my  dear.  There,  you  needn't  look  up  at  I  so 
earnest — I  can  hear  'ee  quite  well  wi'out  that." 

Ann  turned  away  with  an  impatient  groan,  and  went 


i4  DORSET  DEAR 

staggering  up  her  path.  The  other  looked  after  her 
remorsefully. 

"Bide  a  bit,  Mrs.  Kerley,  do  'ee  now.  What  was  ye 
goin'  to  ax  I  ?  " 

"  I  was  but  goin'  to  ax,"  faltered  Ann,  still  with  her 
face  averted,  "  if  you'd  be  so  kind  as  to  fetch  I  a  drop 
o'  water  this  marnin'  when  you  do  go  to  get  some  for 
yoursel'.  There,  I  don't  some  way  feel  as  if  I  could  face 
folks — an'  there  mid  be  some  about.  'Tis  gettin'  a  bit 
late  now." 

"  E-es,  sure  ;  I  could  do  it  easy,"  agreed  Mrs.  Clarke 
eagerly.  "  I  could  do  it  every  marnin' — 'tisn't  a  bit  more 
trouble  to  fill  two  pails  nor  one.  An"  't  'ud  be  better  for 
ee,  Ann,  my  dear,  not  to  go  about  more  nor  you  can  help 
till  this  'ere  visitation  wears  of." 

"'T  'ull  never  wear  off,"  said  Ann  gloomily,  as  she 
walked  unsteadily  away. 

Now,  as  Mrs.  Clarke  subsequently  remarked,  those 
words  of  Ann's  made  her  fair  bibber,  same  as  if  a  bucket 
of  cold  water  were  thrown  down  her  back.  She  was  full 
of  compassion  for  her  neighbour,  and,  though  she  was 
willing  to  believe  that  the  strange,  unpleasant  power  of 
which  she  had  suddenly  become  possessed  was  unwelcome 
to  her  and  unconsciously  used,  she  was  nevertheless  forced 
to  agree  with  Mrs.  Biles  that  that  didn't  make  the  thing 
no  better,  and  that  the  more  Ann  Kerley  kept  herself  to 
herself  the  safer  it  would  be  for  all  parties. 

Meanwhile,  the  anguish  of  mind  endured  by  the  un- 
willing sorceress  defies  description.  Day  by  day  her  de- 
plorable plight  became  more  evident  to  her.  Now  an 


WITCH  ANN  15 

indignant  farmer's  wife  would  come  to  complain  that 
butter  had  not  come,  and  on  poor  Ann's  protesting  that 
she  had  never  so  much  as  set  foot  near  the  dairy,  would 
retort  that  she  had  been  seen  gathering  sticks  at  nightfall 
in  the  pasture,  and  had  doubtless  bewitched  the  cows. 
Now  a  village  mother  would  hastily  snatch  up  a  child 
when  it  toddled  towards  the  witch's  house  ;  even  the 
baker  tossed  the  weekly  loaf  over  the  gate  in  fear,  and 
left  his  bill  at  Mrs.  Clarke's,  saying  he  would  call  for  the 
money  there.  That  lady  informed  her  of  the  fact  through 
the  closed  door  as  she  dumped  her  morning  bucket  of 
water  on  the  path  without,  adding  that  if  she  would  like 
to  leave  the  money  in  the  bucket  when  she  put  it  ready 
overnight,  it  would  save  trouble  to  every  one. 

Ann  Kerley  understood  :  even  her  old  crony  was  now 
afraid  to  meet  her  face  to  face. 

As  she  realised  this  she  fell  to  crying  feebly  and  hope- 
lessly, as  she  had  done  so  often  of  late,  and  Pussy  came 
and  jumped  upon  her  knee,  rubbing  herself  against  her, 
and  gazing  at  her  with  golden  inscrutable  eyes.  The 
warm  contact  of  a  living  creature,  even  a  cat,  was  com- 
forting, and  the  old  woman  hugged  her  favourite  closely  ; 
but  presently,  struck  by  a  sudden  thought,  she  pushed  it 
away,  and  turned  aside  her  head. 

"  There !  get  down,  love  !  do — get  away  with  'ee,  else 
I'll  maybe  be  doin'  thee  a  mischief.  Oh  dear,  Puss,  what- 
ever should  I  do  if  anything  happened  to  thee  ?  " 

The  idea  positively  appalled  her,  and  from  that  moment 
she  was  careful  to  avert  her  face  when  she  set  the  cat's 
food  before  her. 


1 6  DORSET  DEAR 

Perhaps  the  greatest  trial  of  all  was  the  Sunday  church- 
going. 

"  I  d'  'low  the  Lard  won't  let  I  do  nobody  no  harm  in 
His  House,"  she  had  said  to  herself  at  first,  almost  hope- 
fully; and  she  had  donned  her  decent  Sunday  clothes 
eagerly,  not  to  say  joyfully.  She  was  by  nature  soci- 
able, and  had  suffered  as  severely  from  the  inability  to 
indulge  in  an  occasional  chat,  a  little  harmless  gossip, 
with  this  one  and  that  one,  as  from  a  sense  of  being 
under  a  ban. 

So  she  had  set  forth  cheerily,  volunteering  "  A  fine 
marnin',  neighbours,"  to  the  first  group  she  had  passed 
upon  the  road.  But  dear,  to  be  sure !  how  the  folks  had 
jumped  and  squeezed  themselves  against  the  wall  to  let 
her  go  by !  She  had  not  had  the  heart  to  greet  the  next 
couple,  staid  elderly  folk,  who  were  pacing  along  in  front 
of  her,  full  of  Sabbath  righteousness ;  but  presently  the 
man  had  looked  round,  and  had  then  nudged  his  wife, 
and  she  had  gathered  up  her  skirts  and  scuttled  on  with- 
out so  much  as  a  glance  over  her  shoulder.  Poor  Ann 
had  fallen  back  and  turned  aside  into  a  by-path  until  all 
the  congregation  had  streamed  in,  and  then  had  crept  up 
the  steps  alone,  and  made  her  way  to  her  place  blindly, 
for  her  eyes  were  full  once  more  of  piteous  tears. 

But  even  there  humiliation  awaited  her,  for  she  found 
herself  alone  in  her  pew,  none  of  its  accustomed  occu- 
pants being  willing  to  worship  in  such  dangerous  prox- 
imity. 

"  I  must  be  a  terr'ble  wicked  'ooman,  sure,"  groaned 
Ann  to  herself,  and  raised  her  poor  smarting  eyes  to  the 


WITCH  ANN  17 

east  window,  whence  the  figure  of  the  Good  Shepherd 
looked  back  at  her,  full  of  compassion  and  benignity. 

But  Ann  quickly  dropped  her  eyes  again.  Was  He 
not  carrying  a  lamb  upon  His  shoulder  ?  It  seemed  to 
her  that  even  the  painted  innocent  would  droop  and 
falter  beneath  her  gaze. 

And  so  thenceforth  she  started  for  church  long  after 
the  other  members  of  the  congregation,  and  instead  of 
seeking  her  own  place,  stole  humbly  to  a  dark  corner, 
where,  hidden  away  behindx  3.  pillar,  she  worshipped  in 
sorrow  of  heart. 

Such  a  state  of  things  could  not  have  continued  if  the 
old  rector  had  been  at  home,  but  he  was  away  holiday- 
making  in  Switzerland,  and  the  locum  tenens,  a  young 
curate  from  the  neighbouring  town,  could  not  be  expected 
to  notice  a  matter  of  the  kind. 

One  Sunday  afternoon  it  chanced  that  Farmer  Joyce, 
who  lived  up  Riverton  way,  drove  over  to  Little  Branston, 
and  was  good  enough  to  give  a  lift  to  his  neighbour, 
Martha  Hansford,  Ann's  married  daughter,  who  was 
feeling,  as  she  confessed,  a  bit  anxious  at  not  hearing 
from  her  mother. 

"There,  she  haven't  a- wrote  since  I  can't  say  when," 
she  explained  to  the  farmer,  as  the  trap  went  spinning 
along  the  road ;  "  she  don't  write  herself,  mother  don't, 
but  she  do  generally  get  somebody  to  drop  me  a  line  for 
her,  and  I  haven't  heard  a  word  to-month ;  no,  nor  last 
month  either." 

"  Rheumatics  perhaps,"  suggested  the  farmer. 

"  I'm  sure  I  hope  not,  Mr.  Joyce.     My  mother  have 


1 8  DORSET  DEAR 

never  had  sich  a  thing  in  her  life,  an'  'tis  to  be  hoped  she 
hain't  a-goin'  to  begin  now." 

"The  wold  lady's  busy,  very  like,"  hazarded  Mr.  Joyce, 
after  ruminating  a  while.  "  The  time  do  slip  away  so 
quick,  an'  one  day  do  seem  so  like  another,  folks  can't 
always  be  expected  to  put  their  minds  to  letter-writin'." 

"Lard  love  'ee,  sir,"  returned  Martha,  startled  into 
familiarity,  "  farmer  folks  mid  be  busy  enough,  an'  lab'rin' 
folks  too — I  can  scarce  find  the  day  long  enough  to  put  in 
all  as  I've  a-got  to  do — but  mother !  what  can  a  poor  wold 
body  like  mother  have  to  work  at,  wi'out  it's  a  bit  o'  knit- 
tin',  or  some  such  thing.  No,  it's  summat  else,  an'  I'm 
sure  I  can't  think  what  it  can  be." 

Mr.  Joyce  was  not  imaginative  enough  to  assist  her  by 
any  further  hypothesis ;  therefore,  he  merely  touched  up 
the  horse  and  remarked  reassuringly  that  they  would  soon 
be  there.  And  for  the  rest  of  the  drive  Martha  devoted 
herself  to  the  somewhat  difficult  task  of  keeping  her  three- 
year-old  boy,  Ally,  from  wriggling  out  of  her  arms. 

Dropped  at  the  bottom  of  the  "  dip "  wherein  was 
situated  Mrs.  Kerley's  cottage,  Martha  hastened  towards 
it,  Ally  trotting  gleefully  beside  her.  Instead  of  finding 
the  cottage  door  open — as  might  have  been  expected  this 
sunny  October  afternoon — and  catching  a  glimpse  of  her 
mother's  quiet  figure  in  its  elbow-chair,  she  found  the 
house  shut  up,  and  apparently  no  sign  of  life  about  the 
place.  The  very  garden  had  a  neglected  look,  or  so  it 
seemed  to  her ;  and  the  little  window,  usually  gay  with 
flowers,  was  blank  and  desolate,  the  check  curtain  within 
being  drawn  across  it. 


WITCH  ANN  19 

"  Mother !  "  cried  Martha,  in  a  tone  of  such  anguish 
that  Ally  immediately  set  up  a  corresponding  wail.  "  Oh 
mother,  whatever  is  to  do  ?  Be  you  dead  ?  Oh,  mother ! 
be  you  dead  ?  " 

To  her  intense  relief  she  heard  the  sound  of  a  chair 
being  pushed  back  over  the  flagged  floor  within,  and  her 
mother's  well-known  step  slowly  cross  the  little  kitchen. 

"  Martha !  be  it  you,  my  dear  ?  "  But  she  did  not  open 
the  door,  and  when  Martha  eagerly  tried  the  latch  she 
found  that  it  did  not  yield.  \ 

"  Mother,  mother,"  she  cried  in  an  agony  of  fear,  "  oh, 
mother,  what  is  it  ?  Why  don't  ye  let  I  in  ?  " 

"  I  can't,  my  dear,"  came  the  tremulous  voice  from  within. 
"  No,  don't  ax  it  of  I.  I  dursen't,  Martha  !  There,  I  mid 
do  'ee  a  mischief." 

"  Mother,  what  be  talkin'  on  ?  "  Martha  was  beginning 
incredulously,  when  her  small  son,  impatient  of  the  delay, 
fairly  drowned  her  voice  with  shrill  clamour  for  admittance, 
and  vigorous  kicking  of  his  little  hobnailed  boots  at  the 
panels  of  the  door.  Martha  snatched  him  up  and  im- 
patiently clapped  her  hand  over  the  protesting  mouth. 
In  the  momentaiy  pause  that  ensued  she  heard  her  mother 
weeping. 

"Be  that  Ally?  Oh,  my  blessed  lamb!  Oh,  dear 
heart !  Oh,  oh ! "  Then  in  a  louder  key  came  the 
words  broken  by  sobs:  "Take  en  away,  Martha,  do — 
take  en  away,  lovey!  Somethin'  bad  might  happen 
else!" 

Here  Ally,  wrenching  himself  free,  burst  into  a  roar  of 
indignation,  and  his  mother,  popping  him  down  on  the 


20  DORSET  DEAR 

ground,  threw  herself  upon  the  door,  and,  exerting  all 
her  strength,  succeeded  in  bursting  it  open. 

With  a  wail  Ann  shrank  away  from  her  into  the  farthest 
corner  of  the  room,  hiding  her  face  against  the  wall. 

"  Don't  ye  come  a-nigh  me,  Martha,  don't  ye — don't  ye ! 
And  take  the  blessed  child  away !  Take  him  away  this 
minute !  " 

"I'll  do  nothin'  o'  the  kind,"  returned  Martha  vehe- 
mently. "  Be  you  gone  crazy,  mother  ?  Whatever  is  the 
matter?" 

"Nay,  my  dear,  I  bain't  gone  crazy — it  be  worse,  a 
deal  worse.  I  can't  tell  however  it  did  come  about,  Martha, 
but,  there,  I  be  turned  into  a  witch  !  I  be  evil-eyed,  they 
d'  say!  There,  ye'd  never  believe  the  terr'ble  things 
what  have  a-come  about  along  o'  me  jist  lookin'." 

Martha  dropped  down  in  a  chair  and  burst  out  laughing. 
She  was  a  hale,  hearty  young  woman,  who  had  had  a  bit 
of  schooling,  and  took  a  sane  and  cheerful  view  of  life. 

"  God  bless  us,  mother !  "  she  cried,  wiping  her  eyes  at 
last  and  springing  up,  "what  put  such  a  notion  as  that  in 
your  head  ?  You  a  witch !  You  hurtin'  things  wi'  lookin' 
at  'em  !  I  never  did  hear  such  nonsense-talk  in  my  life ! " 

"  But  it  be  true,  Martha — it  be  true ! "  returned  Ann, 
still  hiding  her  face  in  her  trembling  hands.  "  There,  I've 
seed  it  myself.  Don't  you  come  too  nigh,  my  dear,  and 
for  mercy's  sake  keep  the  darlin'  child  away ! " 

"  Nay,  but  I  won't,"  retorted  Martha  ;  and,  catching  up 
the  child,  she  advanced  with  a  determined  air.  "You 
shall  look  at  us — both  of  us — that  you  shall !  Kiss 
grandma,  Ally,  love — that's  it !  Pull  away  her  hands, 


WITCH  ANN  21 

and  give  her  a  big  hug.  There,  the  mischief's  done  now, 
if  mischief  there  be.  Bain't  he  growed,  grandma  ?  Bain't 
he  a  fine  boy  ?  There,  come  an'  sit  ye  down  and  take  en 
on  your  knee  and  feel  the  weight  of  en." 

Ann  could  not  withstand  the  spell  of  the  little  clinging 
arms,  the  kisses  rained  upon  her  withered  cheek.  She 
suffered  the  child  to  climb  from  his  mother's  arms  into 
hers,  and  hugged  him  back  passionately. 

"  Bless  you,  my  lamb  !  Bless  you,  my  darlin'  little 
angel !  Dear,  but  he  be  a  fine  boy,  Martha.  Bless  you, 
love !  E-es  ;  grandma  'ull  find  en  a  lump  o'  sugar.  Ah, 
Martha,  I  be  a-feared — it  do  seem  a  terr'ble  risk ;  but, 
there,  I  can't  think  but  what  the  Lard  'ull  purtect  the 
innercent  child." 

"Now,  you  come  along,  mother,  and  sit  ye  down,  an' 
don't  ye  go  so  trembly.  You'll  not  hurt  Ally ;  he  be  a 
deal  more  like  to  hurt  you,  such  a  mischievous  boy  as  he 
be.  Now,  then,  whoever  has  been  frightenin'  of  ye  with 
such  talk  ? " 

"  My  dear,  they  do  all  say  it,"  murmured  Ann,  looking 
fearfully  round. 

Brokenly,  and  with  many  digressions,  she  told  her  tale. 
Long  before  she  had  ended  Martha  was  weeping  too — 
weeping  with  indignation  and  with  a  sense  of  despair ;  for, 
argue  as  she  might,  she  could  not  divest  her  mother  of  her 
persuasion  in  her  own  fell  powers.  If  Ann  herself  could 
not  be  convinced  of  the  folly  of  the  supposition,  what  hope 
could  Martha  have  to  do  away  with  the  unjust  suspicions 
of  the  neighbours  ? 

Each  fresh  proof  of  the  ostracism  which  had  become 


22  DORSET  DEAR 

her  mother's  portion  added  to  her  wrath  and  woe.  She 
had  not  had  a  bit  of  meat  to  her  dinner,  as  was  invariably 
the  case  on  Sunday,  not  having  dared  to  venture  forth  to 
buy  it.  There  was  not  so  much  as  a  drop  of  milk  in  the 
house,  the  child  who  usually  brought  it  having  declined  to 
perform  that  office.  Ann  had  not  liked  even  to  go  out 
and  get  herself  a  few  "  spuds  " — there  were  so  many  folks 
about  on  Saturdays,  she  explained.  There  was  no  fire  in 
the  grate,  though  the  autumn  day  was  sharp,  for  Farmer 
Cosser  had  "  dared  "  her  to  pick  up  any  more  sticks  in  his 
field. 

"  I  d'  'low  ye'd  ha'  been  dead  afore  long,  if  I  hadn't  ha' 
come,"  cried  Martha,  and  then  fell  a-sobbing  again.  What 
was  the  use  of  her  having  come  ?  What  good  could  she 
do? 

The  two  women  were  sitting  together  in  very  melan- 
choly mood,  when  Farmer  Joyce  called  to  say  that  he 
would  hitch  the  horse  at  six  o'clock,  and  Martha  must 
meet  him  at  the  top  of  the  road. 

"  Hullo  ! "  he  cried,  breaking  off  short  at  sight  of  their 
tearful  faces,  "  be  you  all  a-cryin'  in  here  ?  " 

And  then  Martha,  eager  for  sympathy,  made  bold  to 
clutch  at  his  stout  arm  and  pour  forth  her  tale.  The 
farmer,  leaning  against  the  door-post,  listened  at  first  in 
amusement,  afterwards  with  an  indignation  almost  equal 
to  the  daughter's  own. 

"  I  never  did  hear  such  a  thing  ! "  he  cried  emphatically, 
as  she  paused  for  breath.  "  They  must  be  a  pack  o'  sam- 
mies  in  this  place — and  wicked  uns,  too.  Dear  heart 
alive  !  they've  fair  gallied  the  poor  wold  'ooman  out  of 


WITCH  ANN  23 

her  wits.     Be  there  any  one  about  ?     I'll  soon  show  'em 
what  I  think  of  'em." 

"There's  a  good  few  folks  just  goin'  their  ways  to 
church,"  cried  Martha,  eagerly  pointing  up  the  lane. 

"  Then  I'll  step  up  and  give  'em  a  bit  o'  my  mind,"  re- 
turned he.  "  You  come  along  wi'  I,  Mrs.  Kerley — don't 
ye  stop  for  to  put  on  your  bonnet — throw  this  'ere  'anker- 
cher  over  your  cap — else  we'll  not  be  in  time  to  catch  'em, 
maybe." 

"  No,  I  dursen't  do  that,"  protested  Ann,  plucking  away 
the  handkerchief  which  he  had  thrown  over  her  head ; 
"  'twas  that  which  did  first  start  the  notion.  'Twas  a 
windy  day,  d'ye  see,  an'  I  was  going  to  pick  a  bit  o'  scroff, 
an'  I  just  tied  my  handkercher  round  my  head — an'  when 
the  bwoys  did  see  I,  they  did  pelt  I  wi'  stones  and  call  I 
witch." 

"  Young  rascals ! "  ejaculated  the  farmer,  who  had  by 
this  time  hauled  her  out  of  the  house,  and  was  hunying 
with  her  up  the  lane.  "  Come  on,  Martha !  Make  haste, 
'ooman  !  There  be  a  lot  of  'em  yonder." 

In  a  few  moments  he  and  the  breathless  women  found 
themselves  in  the  midst  of  quite  a  little  crowd,  for  Farmer 
Joyce  had  waylaid  the  first  group  he  came  across,  and  the 
sound  of  his  stentorian  tones,  raised  in  wrathful  accusation, 
speedily  summoned  others. 

"  You  be  a  wise  lot  here,  you  be !  "  he  cried  ;  "  you  do 
know  summat,  you  do.  Tell  'ee  what — you  be  the  biggest 
lot  o'  stunpolls  as  ever  was  seed  or  heerd  on.  This  be 
your  witch,  be  it  ? — thikky  poor  wold  'ooman  what  have 
never  done  anybody  a  bit  o'  harm  in  her  life — poor  wold 


24  DORSET  DEAR 

Ann  Kerley  what  was  born  and  bred  here,  and  did  get 
married  to  a  Little  Branston  man  an'  all,  and  what  have 
lived  among  ye  so  quiet  an'  peaceful  as  a  body  could  do. 
Why,  look  at  her!  Look  at  the  poor  wold  frightened 
face  of  her ;  d'ye  mean  for  to  tell  I  that's  the  face  of  a 
witch  ?  " 

"  Well,  she  did  blight  our  'taters,"  growled  somebody. 

"  An'  she  did  overlook  Mrs.  Clarke's  young  duck " 

"Did  she?"  retorted  Farmer  Joyce,  sarcastically. 
"  Well,  she  didn't  overlook  my  young  duck,  and  they  be 
dead — the  most  on  'em — what  do  ye  make  o'  that  ?  Did 
ye  never  hear,  you  wise  folk,  as  duckling  do  mostly  die 
in  thunder  weather  ?  And  I'll  warrant  you  be  too  wise 
hereabouts  to  have  heerd  that  this  be  a  blight-year.  A 
lot  o'  my  'taters  be  blighted " 

"I'm  sure,"  put  in  poor  Martha,  eagerly,  " our  'taters 
be  blighted  too.  There,  my  husband  do  say  'tis  scarce 
worth  while  to  get  'em  up." 

"  I  s'pose,"  cried  Farmer  Joyce,  looking  round  with 
withering  sarcasm,  "  I  s'pose  this  'ere  witch  have  a-gone 
and  wished  ill-luck  to  her  own  darter's  'taters.  'Tis  very 
likely,  I'm  sure.  And  there's  another  thing — I  did  hear 
some  tale  o'  bees  a-dyin'  arter  they'd  a-been  put  in  a  new 
hive." 

"  That's  true  enough."  "  'Tis  true,  sure,"  came  one  or 
two  voices  in  reply,  not  with  any  great  enthusiasm,  how- 
ever ;  then  a  man's  sullen  tones — "  'Tis  so  true  as  anything. 
They  was  my  bees,  an'  I  can  answer  for't  bein'  true." 

"  How  much  food  did  ye  put  in  for  'em  when  ye  did 
shift  'em  ?  "  inquired  Joyce,  fixing  his  eyes  on  the  speaker. 


WITCH  ANN  25 

"  How  much  food  ?  I  d'  'low  bees  be  like  to  keep 
theirselves." 

"  Not  when  you  do  take  their  store  off  'em  so  late  in 
the  season.  You've  a-killed  your  own  bees,  good  man  ; 
they  were  too  weak,  d'ye  see,  to  keep  wosses  off  when 
they  did  come  a-fightin'  of  'em.  I'd  ha  thought  you'd  ha 
been  clever  enough  to  ha'  knowed  that,  seein'  what  knowin' 
folks  you  be  in  Little  Branston.  There,  you  did  know 
poor  wold  Mrs.  Kerley  tied  her  'andkercher  over  her  head 
to  make  herself  a  witch — 'twas  that  what  made  her  a 
witch,  weren't  it  ?  Now  I  be  a  witch,  bain't  I  ?  " 

He  whisked  off  his  hat  suddenly,  and  drawing  a  cotton 
handkerchief  from  his  pocket  threw  it  over  his  head  and 
tied  the  ends  beneath  his  chin.  The  sight  of  his  large  red 
face  with  its  fringe  of  grey  whisker  looking  jubilantly  out 
of  the  red  and  yellow  folds,  was  irresistibly  comic ;  the 
bystanders  fairly  roared.  The  farmer  was  quick  to  follow 
up  his  advantage. 

"  I  must  be  a  witch,"  he  persisted,  "  seein'  as  I've  a-got 
a  witch's  head  on  ; "  then,  seized  by  a  yet  more  luminous 
inspiration,  he  crowned  the  meek  and  trembling  Ann 
Kerley  with  his  own  broad-brimmed  and  shaggy  beaver. 

"  Now,  Mrs.  Kerley  be  a  farmer.  She  must  be  a  farmer, 
sure,  for  she  be  a-wearin'  a  farmer's  hat.  There  be  jist  so 
mich  sense  in  the  one  notion  as  t'other.  Here  we  be — 
Farmer  Kerley  and  Witch  Joyce ! " 

The  merriment  at  this  point  grew  so  uproarious  that 
the  clergyman  in  his  distant  vestry  very  nearly  sallied 
forth  to  inquire  the  cause ;  but  it  died  away  as  suddenly 
as  it  had  begun.  The  sight  of  poor  old  Ann's  lined  face 


26  DORSET  DEAR 

looking  patiently  out  from  beneath  its  ridiculous  headgear 
was,  on  the  whole,  more  pathetic  than  ludicrous;  folks 
began  to  look  at  each  other,  and  to  own  to  themselves 
that  they  had  been  not  only  foolish,  but  cruel.  Every 
word  that  the  farmer  spoke  had  carried  weight,  and  he 
could  have  employed  no  more  forcible  argument  than  the 
practical  demonstration  at  the  end.  He  was  the  very  best 
advocate  who  could  have  been  chosen  to  plead  for  her — a 
good  plain  man,  like  themselves,  who  thoroughly  under- 
stood the  case.  By  the  time  Farmer  Joyce  had  resumed 
his  hat  and  restored  his  handkerchief  to  his  pocket,  the 
cause  was  won.  People  had  gathered  round  Ann  with 
rough  apologies  and  kindly  handshakes,  and  she  was 
escorted  homewards  by  more  than  one  long-estranged 
friend. 

When  little  Ally,  who  had  been  asleep  on  the  settle, 
woke  at  the  sound  of  the  approaching  voices,  and  came 
trotting  out  of  the  banned  house,  rubbing  his  eyes  and 
calling  loudly  for  "  Grandma,"  the  good  women  nodded 
to  each  other  meaningly,  and  said  that  he  was  a  fine  boy, 
bless  him,  and  he  wouldn't  be  likely  to  look  so  well  if 

And  then  somebody  sniffed  the  air,  and  observed 

that  he  shouldn't  wonder  but  what  Mrs.  Kerley's  'taters  was 
a  bit  blighted  too,  and  Mrs.  Kerley  replied  that  she  was 
sure  they  mid  be,  but  she  didn't  know,  for  she  hadn't  had 
the  heart  to  look.  And  then  the  expert  returned  authori- 
tatively that  he  was  quite  sure  they  was  done  for,  which 
seemed  wonderfully  satisfactory  to  all  parties. 

And  then  Farmer  Joyce  bethought  him  that  it  was  time 
to  hitch  the  horse,  and  the  rest  of  Ann's  friends  remem- 


WITCH  ANN  27 

bered  that  "  last  bell "  would  soon  ha*  done  ringing  ;  so 
gradually  the  little  crowd  melted  away,  and  Martha  em- 
braced her  mother  with  a  thankful  heart,  and  went  away 
likewise,  leaving  Ally  behind,  according  to  the  farmer's 
advice,  who  had  reminded  her  in  a  gruff  whisper  that  the 
little  chap  would  be  more  like  to  take  off  the  wold  body's 
mind  from  that  there  queer  notion  nor  anything  else. 

So  the  little  house,  which  had  been  so  desolate  a  few 
hours  before,  was  now  restored  to  homely  joy  and  peace ; 
and  when  Martha  looked  back  from  the  summit  of  the 
lane,  she  saw  her  mother  standing,  all  smiles,  in  the  open 
doorway,  shading  her  eyes  from  the  sun,  which  was  making 
a  glory  round  the  curly  head  of  the  child  in  her  arms. 


A  RUNAWAY  COUPLE. 

SUMMER  dawn  ;  a  thousand  delicate  tints  in  the  sky  above 
and  dewy  world  beneath ;  birds  stretching  drowsy  little 
wings  and  piping  to  each  other  ;  dumb  things  waking  up 
one  by  one  and  sending  forth  their  several  calls.  But  as 
yet  nothing  seemed  astir  in  the  old  house ;  the  windows, 
open  for  the  most  part,  were  still  curtained  ;  no  thin  spiral 
of  smoke  wound  its  way  upwards  from  the  kitchen  chimney. 
Ruddy  shafts  of  light  made  cheer,  indeed,  on  the  mullioned 
panes  and  the  moss-grown  coping,  picked  out  the  stone- 
crops  and  saxifrages  on  the  roof,  ran  along  the  stone 
gutter,  bathed  the  old  chimney  stacks  with  a  glow  that 
would  seem  to  mock  at  the  empty  hearths  within. 

Presently  a  great  clucking  and  crowing  was  heard  from 
the  poultry-yard  at  the  rear  of  the  house,  and  a  moment 
or  two  after  a  little  old  lady  came  trotting  along  the  mossy 
path  behind  the  yew  hedge  and  picked  her  way  daintily 
between  the  apple-trees  in  the  orchard.  As  she  proceeded 
she  looked  to  right  and  to  left  as  though  in  fear,  yet  her 
face  was  wreathed  in  the  broadest  of  smiles,  and  every  now 
and  then  she  uttered  an  ecstatic  chuckle.  Now  out  at  the 
wicket-gate  and  down  the  lane  to  the  right.  Lo !  stand- 
ing outlined  against  the  purple  expanse  of  moor  a  hundred 

paces  or  so  from  the  gate  an  equipage  was  drawn  up ;  two 

28 


A  RUNAWAY  COUPLE  29 

men  were  stationed  by  the  horses'  heads,  one  of  whom 
hurried  forward  to  meet  her,  while  the  other  stiffly  climbed 
up  on  the  box.  The  first,  a  tall  burly  old  man,  wearing  a 
white  top-hat,  an  old-fashioned  embroidered  waistcoat, 
and  a  spick-and-span  suit  of  broadcloth,  beckoned  eagerly 
as  he  hastened  towards  her,  while  the  figure  on  the  box 
waved  his  whip,  and  jerked  his  elbow  with  every  sign  of 
impatience. 

"  So  there  ye  be  at  last,  my  dear  ! "  cried  the  old  gentle- 
man. "  Blest  if  I  didn't  think  they'd  catched  ye.  Come 
along,  hurry  up  !  Let's  be  off;  it's  close  upon  four  o'clock." 

The  lady,  who  was  plump  and  somewhat  short  of  breath, 
merely  chuckled  again  by  way  of  rejoinder,  and  suffered 
herself  to  be  hoisted  into  the  waiting  chaise.  It  was  an 
extremely  old-fashioned  chaise  with  a  hood  and  a  rumble  ; 
the  coachman  was  equally  antiquated  in  appearance,  and 
wore  a  moth-eaten  livery  of  obsolete  cut  and  a  beaver 
hat. 

"  Now  off  with  ye,  Jem,"  cried  the  old  gentleman  in  a 
stage  whisper.  "  Let  'em  go,  my  lad.  Don't  spare  the 
cattle !  We  must  be  miles  away  from  here  before  the 
folks  yonder  have  time  to  miss  us.  But  whatever  did 
keep  ye  so  long,  Susan  ?  "  he  inquired,  turning  to  the  lady. 

"  My  dear,"  said  she,  with  a  delighted  giggle,  "  I've  been 
to  feed  the  chickens." 

Thereupon  her  companion  fell  into  a  paroxysm  of  sup- 
pressed merriment,  growing  purple  in  the  face,  and  slap- 
ping his  thigh  in  ecstacy.  The  old  coachman  turned  round 
upon  the  box  and  bent  down  his  ear  to  catch  the  joke. 

"  Missus  has  been  to  feed  chicken,  Jem,"  laughed  his 


3o  DORSET  DEAR 

master.    "  Ho !  ho  !  ho ! — she  wouldn't  leave  out  that  part, 
ye  may  be  sure." 

Jem  grinned.  "  No,  I  d'  'low  she  wouldn't.  Missus  be 
a  grand  hand  at  feedin'  chicken  ;  she've  a-had  practise, 
haven't  she,  Measter  ?  I'll  go  warrant  she  have." 

"  And  I've  been  doing  something  else  too,  John,"  con- 
tinued she,  when  the  explosion  had  in  some  measure 
subsided.  "  See  here  ! " 

She  opened  the  lid  of  the  little  covered  basket  which 
she  carried,  and  displayed  three  nosegays  of  white  flowers. 

"  I  thought  we  might  wear  these,"  she  remarked.  "  I 
veiy  nearly  brought  favours  for  the  horses,  too,  but  I  was 
afraid  it  would  excite  remark." 

"  And  you  were  right,"  said  he  ;  "  but  I  think  we've 
managed  pretty  well  to  put  'em  off  the  scent.  Jem  did 
drive  a  good  bit  along  the  Dorchester  road,  and  back  very 
quiet  over  the  heath.  'Twas  very  artful  of  'ee,  my  dear, 
to  be  talkin'  so  innercent-like  about  Wey mouth  yesterday 
— they'll  think  we've  a-gone  there,  for  sure." 

The  old  lady  drew  herself  up  with  a  little  conscious  air. 

"  It  takes  a  woman's  wit  to  think  of  them  things,"  she 
said.  "  But  I  do  feel  sorry  for  them  all,  too.  I  left  just  a 
bit  of  a  line  for  Mary  to  say  she  wasn't  to  be  frightened  and 
we  was  just  gone  for  the  day,  and  they  mustn't  think  of 
looking  for  us.  But  I  can't  help  thinking  it  does  seem  a 
shame.  There,  all  the  poor  things  will  be  comin'  from 
this  place  and  that  place  and  bringing  the  children,  and 
making  ready  their  little  speeches,  and  getting  out  their 
little  presents " 

The  old  man  began  to  chuckle  again. 


A  RUNAWAY  COUPLE  31 

She  looked  at  him  reproachfully,  and  he  laughed  louder 
and  rubbed  his  hands. 

"  'Tis  very  unfeeling  of  you  to  laugh  like  that,  John. 
I'm  sure  it  is.  Haven't  you  got  no  feeling  for  your  own 
flesh  and  blood  ? " 

"  If  you  come  to  that,"  said  John,  "  whose  notion  was 
it  ?  Says  I,  '  I  do  wish,'  I  says,  '  we  could  give  'em  all  the 
slip  and  spend  the  happy  day  quiet  by  our  two  selves.' 
And  says  you.  '  Why  shouldn't  we,  then  ? '  says  you. 
'  Look  here,'  you  says,  '  w^y  shouldn't  we  do  it  over 
again,  John  ? '  '  What  ? '  says  I.  '  What  we  done  fifty 
years  ago,'  says  you.  '  Well,'  I  says,  and  I  say  now,  '  it 
takes  a  woman's  cleverness  to  think  o'  such  things.'  So 
here  we  be  a-runnin'  away  again,  love  ;  bain't  we  ? " 

She  extended  her  little  mittened  hand  to  him  with  a 
gracious  smile  that  had  in  it  a  droll  assumption  of  coyness. 

"  There's  the  ring,  though,"  said  he  ;  "  that  there  ring 
ought  to  come  off,  Susan,  else  it  'ull  not  seem  real-like." 

His  gnarled  old  fingers  were  already  fumbling  with  the 
ring,  but  she  jerked  away  her  hand  quickly. 

"  No,  indeed  ! "  she  cried.  "  Have  it  off !  I  wouldn't 
have  it  off  for  a  thousand  pounds.  It's  never  been  off  my 
finger  all  these  years,  John,  and  I'm  certainly  not  going  to 
have  it  off  to-day." 

She  pinned  the  nosegay  in  his  coat,  assumed  a  similar 
decoration  herself,  and  handed  one  to  Jem.  Then  they 
drove  onwards  with  renewed  speed.  Jem,  following  his 
master's  advice,  was  not  sparing  the  cattle ;  the  old  chaise 
rocked  from  side  to  side,  the  horses  flew  along  the  road. 
They  had  now  left  the  heath  behind  and  found  themselves 


32  DORSET  DEAR 

on  the  highway  ;  the  country  was  looking  its  best  this  fine 
sunny  morning ;  the  hedges  were  still  white  with  bloom  ; 
the  leafage  of  the  woods  through  which  they  passed  was 
yet  untarnished  by  heat  or  dust ;  a  spicy  fragrance  was 
wafted  towards  them  from  the  fir  plantations;  in  the 
villages  the  folks  were  beginning  to  stir ;  chimneys  were 
smoking  ;  women  moving  to  and  fro,  here  and  there  a 
man  sauntering  fieldwards. 

They  looked  after  the  rattling  chaise  with  astonishment. 
"  I  hope  nobody  will  set  up  a  hue  and  cry,"  ejaculated 
the  old  lady  nervously.     "There's  nobody  coming  after 
us,  is  there,  Jem  ?  " 

"Don't  ye  be  afeared,  mum,"  returned  Jem  valiantly. 
"  You  sit  still,  Mrs.  Bussell ;  nobody's  thinkin'  o'  sich  a 
thing,  an"  if  they  was,  we'd  soon  leave  'em  behind.  I 
brought  ye  safe  to  Branston  this  day  fifty  year  ago,  an' 
I'll  do  the  same  to-day,  dalled  if  I  don't." 

"So  ye  did,  Jem,  so  ye  did,"  exclaimed  his  master. 
"  Dear  heart  alive,  do  ye  mind,  Sukey,  that  time  we  heard 
such  a  clatterin'  behind  us,  and  you  thought  all  was  lost, 
and  Jem  turned  right  into  Yellowham  Wood.  How  he 
done  it  I  can  never  think.  But  we  crope  out  of  sight  and 
the  folks  rattled  past.  And  'twasn't  nobody  thinkin'  of  us 
at  all.  'Twas  young  Squire  Frampton  drivin'  for  a  wager." 
"  Yes,  my  father  was  looking  for  us  along  the  Dorchester 
road,"  said  she,  laughing  again. 

"  He  !  he  !  "  chimed  in  Jem,  "  I  mind  that  well.  Twas 
my  cousin  Joe  what  took  yon  empty  shay.  He  couldn't 
for  the  life  of  en  make  out  why  he  were  to  ride  so  fast 
wi'  nobody  inside.  '  Never  you  mind,  Joe,'  says  I,  '  ride 


A  RUNAWAY  COUPLE  33 

away  for  your  gold  piece/  I  says.  I  weren't  a-goin'  to  tell 
he  what  was  a-goin'  on.  He  weren't  to  be  trusted  same  as 
me.  He  understood  about  the  gold  piece  right  enough, 
and,  dally !  he  did  understand  Squire  Sherren's  horsewhip, 
too,  when  he  corned  up  wi'  en  and  couldn't  make  Joe  tell 
en  where  he  was  gone.  I  d'  'low  ye  was  half-way  to  Lun- 
non  by  that  time." 

"  Poor  Joe  !  "  said  Mrs.  Bussell  compassionately. 

"  Pooh ! "  exclaimed  bluff  old  John,  "  a  gold  piece  would 
mend  many  broken  bones.  Well,  my  dear,  I'm  gettin' 
sharp-set,  what  do  ye  say  to  a  bit  of  breakfast  ?  Pull  up 
at  the  first  sheltered  place  you  come  to,  Jem." 

"  But  let  it  be  somewhere  where  you  can  keep  a  look- 
out," put  in  the  old  lady  anxiously.  "  Don't  let's  be 
caught." 

By-and-by  they  arrived  at  a  suitable  place,  and  Jem 
duly  pulled  up,  and  John  brought  out  a  well-packed  ham- 
per from  the  rumble,  and  Mrs.  Bussell  made  tea  from  a 
spirit-lamp,  and  dispensed  goodly  portions  of  buttered  roll, 
and  ham,  and  hard-boiled  eggs,  and  John  and  Jem  took 
turns  to  act  sentry,  and  little  Mrs.  Bussell  raised  an  alarm 
about  every  five  minutes  and  entered  more  and  more  into 
the  spirit  of  the  enterprise.  Her  husband,  setting  his 
white  hat  rakishly  on  the  back  of  his  head,  and  looking 
extremely  jocose,  endeavoured  to  throw  himself  into  the 
part  which  he  had  played  a  half-century  before,  but  did 
not  altogether  succeed  in  representing  the  trembling  young 
lover,  even  though  he  called  the  old  lady  by  her  maiden 
name,  and  delivered  himself  of  sundry  amorous  speeches 
with  a  fervour  that  was  occasionally  mixed  with  hilarity. 

3 


34  DORSET  DEAR 

"Faith,  my  dear,"  he  cried  when  she  took  him  to 
task,  "  you  must  let  me  talk  as  I  please.  I  was  your 
lover  then,  and  I  am  your  lover  now,  for  all  we've  been 
man  and  wife  this  fifty  years.  What  signifies  it  whether 
your  hair  is  gold  or  silver,  or  whether  you  are  fat  or  slim  ? 
Handsome  is  as  handsome  does,  I  say,  and  you've  a-been 
the  best  wife  a  man  could  have." 

"La!  John,"  said  she,  and  winked  away  a  tear.  John 
put  out  his  rugged  old  hand  and  gripped  hers. 

"  The  best  wife  a  man  could  have,"  he  repeated  earnestly. 
"  Fifty  years  ! — I  wish  we  mid  have  fifty  years  more  to- 
gether." 

"  I  wish  we  was  back  at  the  beginning,"  said  she.  "  I'd 
like  to  go  through  it  all  over  again,  John.  I'd  take  it  all 
and  be  thankful — the  rough  and  the  smooth,  and  the  joy  and 
the  sorrow.  Except  maybe — poor  little  Ben,  you  know — 
I  don't  think  I'd  like  to  live  through  those  years  again. 
How  we  hoped,  didn't  we  ?  And  he  was  took  at  the  last." 

"  Well,  ye  have  the  other  seven,  Susan,  my  dear,  alive 
and  well,  and  their  children.  Why,  you  mid  say  that  one 
loss  has  been  made  up  to  ye  by  more  than  a  score  of  other 
blessings." 

Mrs.  Bussell  shook  her  head,  but  smiled,  and  presently 
wondered  aloud  if  John's  Annie  would  bring  the  baby. 

"  I'd  like  to  have  seen  it,  too,"  she  added.  "  I  hope 
Mary  will  have  the  sense  to  keep  them.  I  told  her  a  good 
many  of  them  would  stop  the  night." 

"  Somebody's  coming  !  "  announced  Jem  at  this  juncture. 

And  then  what  a  bustle  and  clatter  ensued,  what  hasty 
packing  of  the  hamper,  what  tremulous  climbing  into  the 


A  RUNAWAY  COUPLE  35 

chaise  on  the  part  of  the  "  missus  " ;  with  what  an  air  of 
firmness  and  resolution  did  the  master  straighten  his  hat 
and  square  his  shoulders  as  though  preparing  to  defy  all 
pursuers.  And  after  all  it  was  only  the  mail  cart  bowling 
merrily  along;  and  the  driver  gave  the  runaway  couple 
a  cheeiy  good  day  as  he  passed.  Then,  though  they 
laughed  long  and  loud  over  the  false  alarm,  they  realised 
that  the  time  was  getting  on,  and  that  it  behoved  them  to 
hasten  to  their  destination. 

The  little  town  of  Branston  was  not  yet  very  wide- 
awake when  they  did  arrive  at  the  Royal  George,  and 
Jem  pulled  up  with  a  flourish,  and  threw  the  reins  to  a 
gaping  stable-boy  with  as  great  an  air  as  would  have 
befitted  a  coachman  in  the  palmy  days  when  the  Flying 
Stage  used  to  change  horses  at  Branston.  The  little  old 
lady  alighted  demurely,  her  husband  supporting  her  while 
she  planted  first  one  neat  little  foot,  clad  in  a  buckled 
shoe  and  clocked  white  stocking,  on  the  step,  and  then  its 
fellow,  and  lifting  her  off  bodily,  with  much  the  same 
tender  gallantly  as  that  with  which  he  had  doubtless  per- 
formed a  similar  office  fifty  years  ago.  At  his  request, 
Mrs.  Bussell  was  conducted  to  the  best  private  room  ;  she 
seemed  to  have  quite  identified  herself  with  those  bygone 
days,  and  clung  to  his  arm  fearfully  as  they  mounted  the 
stairs;  while  in  her  husband  past  and  present  were 
pleasantly  mingled.  Thus,  when,  having  deposited  his 
fair  charge  in  the  George's  largest  sitting-room,  he  strolled 
down  to  the  lower  premises  to  give  certain  orders  regard- 
ing the  horses,  he  made  no  ado  about  taking  the  landlord 
into  his  confidence. 

3* 


36  DORSET  DEAR 

"This  'ere  is  a  runaway  trip,"  he  remarked,  with  a 
jocular  wink.  "'Tis  our  golden  weddin'-day,  and  the 
missus  and  me  had  a  notion  o'  spendin'  it  quiet,  just  by 
our  two  selves.  They're  makin'  a  great  to-do  at  our  place 
— children  and  grandchildren  comin'  from  all  sides,  but 
we  just  thought  we'd  give  them  the  slip,  and  keep  the  day 
here  same  as  we  done  fifty  year  ago." 

"  Ah,"  put  in  the  landlord,  much  interested,  "  I  heard 
somethin'  about  that.  You  and  your  lady  run  off,  didn't 
ye?" 

"  We  did,"  returned  John.  "  Her  father,  ye  see,  old 
Sherren — they  did  use  to  call  en  Squire — she  was  the 
only  child,  and  he  reckoned  on  her  makin'  a  grand  match, 
takin"  up  wi'  one  o'  the  reg'lar  gentry,  ye  know ;  but  he 
wasn't  a  bit  better  nor  the  rest  of  any  of  us  yeoman  far- 
mers. Well,  I  wasn't  much  of  a  match  in  those  days — 
my  father  had  a  long  family  and  not  much  to  divide 
between  us ;  but  I  liked  the  maid,  and  the  maid  she  did 
like  me,  so  we  took  the  law  into  our  own  hands.  My 
missus,  she  did  use  to  go  a-feedin'  of  her  chicken  very 
early  in  the  mornin',  so  the  folks  got  accustomed  to  hearin' 
her  get  up  and  go  out  before  daylight  almost — and  one 
mornin'  she  did  go  out  and  she  didn't  never  go  back." 

"  I  remember,"  cried  the  other,  "  you  tricked  them  wi'  an 
empty  post-chaise,  didn't  ye  ? " 

"  To  be  sure,"  returned  the  old  farmer  chuckling. 
"  'Twas  Joe  Boyt  did  that.  He  did  ride  for  all  he  were 
worth,  the  wrong  way.  And  me  and  the  maid  ran  a 
couple  of  mile  on  our  own  legs,  till  we  come  to  the  high 
road  where  Jem  was  awaitin'  for  us  wi'  the  veiy  same  old 


A  RUNAWAY  COUPLE  37 

shay  as  we  did  drive  over  in  to-day.  I  did  swear  I'd  buy 
it  if  ever  I  had  the  chance,  and  I'd  take,  Jem  into  my 
service.  And  I  did  both." 

"  The  old  Squire  came  round  before  long,"  remarked 
the  landlord ;  "  yes,  I  heard  the  tale  often  enough. 
There's  an  old  chap  here  as  used  to  be  ostler  in  the  old 
days,  and  he  minds  well  how  you  and  the  lady  came  here 
to  hide,  so  to  speak,  till  the  coach  came  up." 

"  That's  it ! "  cried  old  John  delightedly,  slapping  his 
thigh  to  give  emphasis  to  hi<3  words.  "  The  coach  took  us 
to  Bath  and  we  had  the  j^b  done  there — licence,  you 
know.  And  the  missus  and  I,  d'ye  see,  had  the  notion 
o'  stoppin'  here  to-day  in  memory  of  that  time,  and  makin' 
believe  we  was  doin'  it  over  again.  Between  you  and  me," 
said  John,  poking  the  landlord  in  the  waistcoat  and  wink- 
ing knowingly, "  I  d'  'low  my  old  woman  does  truly  believe 
she  is  back  in  the  old  times  again.  Women  do  seem  to 
have  a  wonderful  power  of  imagination.  There,  she  was 
a-feedin'  her  chicken  this  mornin',  if  ye  please,  just  as  she 
done  the  mornin'  we  made  off." 

"Well,  well,"  commented  the  landlord.  "  You  ought 
to  let  old  'Neas  Bright  have  a  look  at  ye  both.  He's  up 
in  the  almhouse  now,  poor  old  chap,  through  not  bein' 
able  to  work  any  more,  but  he'd  hobble  down  if  he  was  to 
know  ye  were  here." 

"  Send  for  en,  then,  send  for  en,"  cried  John  eagerly  ; 
"but  look  ye,  landlord — keep  the  secret.  Don't  ye  let 
the  folks  know  who  we  are  or  what  we've  come  for,  else 
maybe  the  children  'ull  catch  as  yet." 

The   landlord   laughed   and   promised,  and   thereupon 


3 8  DORSET  DEAR 

John  went  back  to  his  lady,  whom  he  found  peeping  cau- 
tiously out  at  the  Market  Place  from  behind  the  window 
curtain. 

"  Did  you  think  about  ordering  dinner  ? "  inquired  she. 

"  No,  my  dear,  I  left  that  to  you." 

"  Oh,  John,"  she  cried  bashfully,  "  I  feel  nervous-like.  I 
don't  want  to  ring  the  bell  and  have  folks  starin'  at  me. 
Go  down  again  and  order  it — at  twelve  sharp." 

"What  shall  we  have  ?  "  he  inquired. 

"  There  now — to  ask  such  a  thing.  Why,  the  same  as 
we  had  this  day  fifty  year  ago,  of  course." 

"  And  what  was  that  ? "  asked  he. 

"  Why,  John,  I  never  thought  you  would  forget  anything 
about  that  day.  We  had  a  beefsteak-pudding  and  a  boiled 
fowl  with  parsley-and-butter  sauce,  and  potatoes  in  their 
jackets,  and  greens." 

"  So  we  had,"  said  John. 

"  And  you  had  cheese  and  a  crusty  loaf,  and  I  had  a  bit 
o'  rice  puddin'.  And  you  had  a  tankard  o'  best  October 
ale,  and  I  had  a  glass  of  sherry  wine.  Don't  you  remem- 
ber, John,  you  would  make  me  take  the  wine  though  I 
wasn't  used  to  it  and  was  afraid  it  might  go  to  my  head  ? " 

"  Yes,  to  be  sure,"  returned  he.  "  WTell,  I'll  go  and  order 
all  that." 

"  And  then  come  back  to  me — come  straight  back  to 
me,  John.  Don't  stay  gossiping  downstairs.  I  feel  quite 
nervous." 

"  Do  you  think  this  was  the  room  we  had  ? "  inquired 
John,  pausing  half-way  to  the  door.  "  It  don't  look  the 
same  somehow." 


A  RUNAWAY  COUPLE  39 

"  They've  spoilt  it  with  this  new-fangled  furniture,"  re- 
turned she ;  "  but  it  is  the  same.  I  remember  this  little 
window  at  the  end  looking  towards  the  Market  Place. 
Oh,  John — see  here." 

"  What  is  that,  my  dear  ? " 

"  Why,  look  here  at  the  corner  of  the  pane.  Here  are 
our  very  name  letters,  S  for  Susan,  and  J  for  John,  and  the 
true-lovers'-knot  on  the  top.  I  remember  your  scratching 
'em  quite  well." 

"Why,  so  I  did,"  cried  he.  "I'd  a  glass-cutter  in  my 
big  knife.  Well,  to  be  sure !  There  they  are — and  here 
we  are ! " 

"  Here  we  are,"  echoed  she.  "  Thanks  be  to  God  for 
all  His  mercies." 

And  thereupon  she  clasped  both  her  little  wrinkled 
hands  round  his  arm  and  gave  it  a  tender  squeeze,  and  he 
stooped  down  and  kissed  her  round,  wholesome,  pink  old 
cheek. 

Well,  after  John  had  ordered  the  dinner,  and  after  old 
'Neas  Bright  had  come  limping  down  from  the  almshouse 
and  had  related  divers  anecdotes,  and  drunk  the  couple's 
health,  and  gone  away  rejoicing  with  a  half-crown  piece  in 
his  pocket,  John  and  Susan  sat  down  behind  the  screen 
which  cut  off  one  corner  of  the  room  from  the  rest,  and 
gave  themselves  up  to  repose  and  reminiscence. 

Perhaps  it  was  because  they  were  so  happy  and  so  much 
absorbed  in  each  other,  and  also  perhaps  because  they  had 
both  of  them  grown  a  trifle  hard  of  hearing  of  late  years, 
that  they  did  not  notice  a  sudden  bustle  and  excitement 
in  the  street  below. 


40  DORSET  DEAR 

Had  they  looked  out  they  would  have  seen  a  string  of 
vehicles  of  different  kinds  drawn  up  just  outside — spring- 
carts,  gigs,  a  waggonette,  and  last  but  not  least,  a  waggon 
drawn  by  a  team  of  splendid  farm-horses  and  filled  to 
overflowing  with  country  people.  All  the  occupants  of 
these  conveyances  were  dressed  in  holiday  attire,  all  wore 
enormous  white  nosegays,  while  the  horses'  blinkers  and  the 
drivers'  whips  were  alike  decorated  with  snowy  streamers. 
The  door  opened  suddenly,  and  some  one  ran  round  the 
screen. 

"  Why,  there  they  are ! "  cried  a  child's  jubilant  voice. 
"  There's  grandpa  and  grandma  a-sittin'  hand-in-hand." 

And  then  from  the  staircase,  and  from  the  hall,  and 
from  the  street  arose  a  sudden  deafening  cheer. 

"  I  d'  'low  they've  caught  us ! "  cried  John,  with  a  whim- 
sical glance  at  his  spouse ;  but  she  was  already  engaged 
in  fondling  the  child  and  scarcely  heard  him. 

A  moment  afterwards  the  room  was  crowded  with  the 
descendants  of  the  old  folks — three  generations  of  them  : 
middle-aged  prosperous-looking  sons  and  daughters  ;  rosy 
grandchildren  and  even  one  great-grandchild,  for  young 
John's  Annie  had  brought  her  baby,  which  proved  to  be 
the  finest  child  of  its  age  that  had  ever  been  seen,  and  to 
have  "come  on  wonderful"  since  Mrs.  Bussell  last  beheld 
it.  And  there  was  such  a  kissing  and  hugging  and  scold- 
ing and  laughing  as  had  surely  never  before  been  heard  in 
that  staid,  respectable  old  room,  and  grandma  was  very 
arch  and  coy  on  being  reproached  for  her  unkind  notion, 
and  grandpa  chuckled  boisterously,  and  rubbed  his  hands, 
and  Mary,  the  only  unmarried  daughter,  related  how  her 


A  RUNAWAY  COUPLE  41 

suspicions  had  at  first  been  aroused  on  discovering  that  the 
chickens  had  been  fed  so  early — all  the  family  knowing 
the  history  of  that  bygone  ruse  by  heart ;  and  how,  though 
she  did  at  first  fancy  they  might  have  gone  to  Weymouth, 
she  had  made  inquiries  in  the  neighbourhood,  and  had 
ascertained  that  a  chaise  with  three  people  wearing  white 
nosegays  had  been  seen  driving  Branston  way  very  soon 
after  daylight.  And  then  John,  the  eldest  son,  took  up 
the  tale,  and  related  how  they  had  settled  to  wait  till  all 
the  family  had  arrived,  and  how  he  had  declared  that  the 
labourers  and  their  wives  should  not  be  baulked  of  their 
share  of  merry-making,  and  how  the  whole  party  was  come 
to  keep  the  golden  wedding  at  Branston. 

"  The  folks  are  waiting  for  you  outside  now,"  he  con- 
cluded ;  "  you'd  best  show  yourselves  to  them,  else  they'll 
never  forgive  you." 

So  over  to  the  window  marched  the  bridal  couple,  and 
there  they  stood  arm-in-arm,  the  illusion  being  a  little 
damaged  by  the  presence  of  the  baby  which  grandma 
would  not  relinquish,  and  by  the  background  of  laughing 
folk,  all  of  whom  bore  so  strong  a  family  likeness  to  their 
progenitors  that  their  relationship  could  not  be  doubted. 

A  rousing  cheer  went  up  once  more,  and  John  waved 
his  hat  in  reply,  and  Susan  laughed  and  nodded,  and  was 
suddenly  taken  by  surprise  by  a  dimness  in  the  eyes  and  a 
choking  sensation  in  the  throat. 

"  I  don't  know  however  I  could  have  had  the  heart  to 
run  away  from  them,"  she  murmured. 

And  then  when  the  speeches  had  been  made,  and  the 
presents  delivered,  and  the  wedding-feast,  supplemented 


42  DORSET  DEAR 

by  many  substantial  additions,  set  forth  upon  the  table, 
and  when  she  sat  down  with  John  the  elder  on  her  right 
and  John  the  younger  on  her  left,  and  Annie's  baby  sound 
asleep  in  her  lap,  and  looked  round  at  the  kindly  happy 
faces,  she  surreptitiously  squeezed  her  husband's  hand  : — 
"  You  and  me  was  very  happy  this  time  fifty  year,"  she 
said,  "  but  after  all— I  don't  know — I  d'  'low  this  is  best." 


POSTMAN  CHRIS. 

IT  was  about  four  o'clock  of  the  afternoon  when  Postman 
Chris  set  forth  on  his  second  round.  He  swung  along  at 
a  rapid  pace,  looking  about  him  with  the  pleased,  alert  air 
of  one  for  whom  his  surroundings  had  not  yet  lost  the 
charm  of  novelty. 

He  had,  indeed,  that  veiy  morning  entered  on  his  duties 
as  postman  for  the  first  time,  though  he  had  served  his 
countiy  in  another  way  before.  For  Postman  Chris  Ryves 
had  been  Trooper  Chris  Ryves  in  a  previous  state  of  ex- 
istence. He  had  had  his  fill  of  warfare  in  South  Africa, 
and  had  indeed  been  wounded  at  Graspan  ;  the  left  breast 
of  his  brand-new  blue  uniform  was  decorated  with  a  medal 
and  quite  a  row  of  clasps.  Though  Postman  Chris  walked 
at  ease  he  held  himself  with  the  erectness  due  to  military 
training,  and  his  straw  hat  was  perched  at  the  rakish  angle 
which  in  earlier  days,  when  he  had  paraded  at  Knights- 
bridge  Barracks,  had  caused  the  heart  of  more  than  one 
artless  city  maiden  to  flutter  in  her  bosom. 

But  for  all  these  past  glories  of  his,  Postman  Chris  was 
an  eminently  pleasant  and  affable  person  ;  at  any  chance 
salutation  of  a  passer-by  the  white  teeth  would  flash  out 
in  that  brown,  brown  face  of  his  with  the  most  good- 
humoured  of  smiles  ;  he  delivered  up  his  letters  with  an 

43 


44  DORSET  DEAR 

urbanity  of  demeanour  that  was  only  surpassed  by  his 
soldierly  promptitude,  and  he  was  willing  to  exchange  the 
news  of  the  day  with  any  pedestrian  who  cared  to  march 
a  short  distance  in  his  company. 

The  bag  which  he  carried  was  not  unduly  heavy,  nor 
his  way  fatiguingly  long  ;  it  was  a  six-mile  round  in  fact 
— starting  from  Chudbury- Marshall,  proceeding  through 
Riverton  and  Little  Branston  to  the  market  town  of 
Branston  and  so  back  again. 

It  chanced  that  as  Chris  approached  Little  Branston 
Schoolhouse  on  this  particular  day,  his  attention  was 
attracted  by  a  hubbub  of  voices  and  laughter  proceeding 
from  the  adjoining  field.  Pausing  a  moment  in  his  rapid 
progress  he  looked  through  a  gap  in  the  hedge.  A  feast 
was  evidently  in  progress ;  some  of  the  children  still  sat  in 
rows  on  the  grass,  armed  with  great  cups  of  sickly-looking 
tea  and  munching  vigorously,  buns  or  hunches  of  bread- 
and-jam  ;  others,  having  finished  their  meal,  were  already 
at  play. 

Here  "  Blind-man's-buff "  was  going  on,  there  "  Drop 
Handkerchief".  In  the  corner  of  the  field  directly  under 
the  postman's  observation  a  game  of  Forfeits  was  proceed- 
ing. The  schoolmistress,  who  sat  facing  him,  was  holding 
up  one  object  after  the  other  over  the  blindfolded  head  of 
a  pupil-teacher,  a  bright  little  girl  who  had  left  school  re- 
cently enough  to  enter  still  with  almost  childish  zest  into 
such  amusements. 

"Here's  a  Fine  Thing  and  a  very  Fine  Thing;  what  is  the 
owner  of  this  Fine  Thing  to  do  ? "  cried  the  schoolmistress. 
She  had  a  pleasant,  clear  voice,  and  though  she  sat  back 


POSTMAN  CHRIS  45 

upon  her  heels  like  many  of  her  pupils,  there  was  some- 
thing particularly  graceful  about  figure  and  attitude. 

"  That's  a  shapely  maid,"  remarked  Postman  Chris  to 
himself;  "yes,  and  a  vitty  one  too." 

It  will  be  seen  that  Chris  Ryves  was  a  Dorset  man,  as 
indeed  his  name  betokened ;  he  came  in  fact  from  the 
other  side  of  the  county. 

The  face  which  he  looked  on  was  as  pretty  as  the 
figure,  its  fresh  bloom  enhanced  by  the  darkness  of  eyes 
and  hair. 

"What  is  the  owner  of  this  Fine  Thing  to  do?"  she 
repeated. 

"  She  must  bite  an  inch  off  a  stick,"  responded  the  pupil- 
teacher,  with  a  delighted  giggle. 

The  owner  of  the  forfeit,  a  peculiarly  stolid-looking 
child,  came  slowly  up  to  redeem  her  pledge,  and,  after  a 
mystified  but  determined  attempt  to  obey  the  mandate 
literally,  was  duly  initiated  into  the  proper  and  innocuous 
manner  of  accomplishing  it.  Then  the  performance  was 
resumed. 

"  Here's  a  Fine  Thing  and  a  very  Fine  Thing ;  and  what 
must  the  owner  of  this  very  Fine  Thing  do  ? "  chanted  the 
schoolmistress. 

"  Is  it  a  boy  or  a  girl  ?  "  asked  the  blindfolded  oracle. 

"  Boy,"  responded  the  schoolmistress. 

"  Then  he  must  bow  to  the  wittiest,  kneel  to  the  pret- 
tiest, and  kiss  the  one  he  loves  best." 

A  little  round-faced  urchin  came  forward  to  claim  his 
cap,  and,  after  much  prompting  and  not  a  little  pushing, 
was  induced  to  carry  out  the  prescribed  programme. 


46  DORSET  DEAR 

He  duly  pulled  a  forelock  to  the  pupil-teacher,  bent  his 
knee  to  a  small  person  with  a  necklace  and  a  profusion  of 
corkscrew  ringlets,  and  bestowed  a  careless  salute  on  the 
chubby  cheek  of  a  smaller  and  still  more  round-faced 
female  edition  of  himself— evidently  a  sister. 

"  Well,  I'm  dalled  ! "  said  the  postman.  "  Them  children 
ha'n't  got  no  eyes  in  their  heads." 

And  with  that  he  stepped  back  from  the  hedge,  hitched 
up  his  bag  a  little  higher  on  his  shoulder,  and  strode  off 
towards  Branston. 

The  next  day  at  the  same  hour  Ruby  Damory,  the 
schoolmistress,  was  standing  on  the  threshold  of  the 
schoolhouse  with  a  copybook  in  her  hand.  She  some- 
times lingered  after  school  had  broken  up  and  the  pupil- 
teacher  had  made  things  tidy  and  betaken  herself  home- 
wards, to  look  over  the  children's  exercises  before  returning 
to  her  lodgings ;  and  as  the  interior  of  the  house  was  close 
and  stuffy  she  preferred  to  accomplish  this  task  in  the 
porch.  The  school-yard  was  as  dusty  and  bleak  as  such 
places  usually  are  ;  but  by  some  strange  chance  the  rose- 
tree  which  was  trained  over  the  porch  remained  uninjured 
by  the  constant  passing  of  little  feet  and  contact  of  little 
persons.  It  grew  luxuriantly,  and  its  clustering  blossoms 
formed  a  pretty  setting  to  the  slim  figure  which  stood 
propped  against  the  wall  beneath. 

All  at  once  Ruby  raised  her  eyes  from  her  book  ;  a 
rapid  step  was  advancing  along  the  footpath  from  the 
direction  of  Riverton  ;  over  the  irregular  line  of  hedge  she 
could  see  a  straw  hat  set  at  a  knowing  angle  on  a  head  of 
bright  red  hair.  It  was  the  new  postman  from  Chudbury 


POSTMAN  CHRIS  47 

— she  had  seen  him  go  past  that  morning  before  she  had 
yet  left  her  room. 

Now  he  was  opposite  the  schoolhouse  gate,  but  instead 
of  passing  it  he  stood  still,  wheeled  about  with  military 
precision,  and  took  off  his  hat  with  a  flourish. 

"  I  bow  to  the  wittiest,"  said  Postman  Chris. 

Then,  before  she  had  time  either  to  respond  or  to  turn 
away,  he  was  marching  on  again,  and  soon  disappeared 
behind  the  tall  hedge  on  the  other  side  of  the  school 
precincts. 

"  Well,  to  be  sure ! "  said  Ruby,  and  she  laughed  to  her- 
self; "he  must  have  noticed  our  game  yesterday.  He 
was  very  complimentary,  I  must  say,  though  I  don't  quite 
know  how  he  could  find  out  I  was  witty.  I  suppose  he 
thinks  I  must  be  because  I'm  the  schoolmistress." 

And  thereupon  she  returned  to  the  exercise. 

But  in  spite  of  herself  her  thoughts  kept  wandering  to 
Postman  Chris  and  his  odd  proceedings,  and  she  said  to 
herself  that,  though  his  hair  was  red  it  was  not  at  all  an 
ugly  colour — in  fact  when  he  took  off  his  hat  it  flashed  in 
the  sun  like  burnished  copper.  The  phrase  took  her  fancy 
for  she  liked  a  fine  word  or  two  when  opportunity  offered  ; 
and  she  was  pleased  too  with  the  aptness  of  the  simile,  for 
she  possessed  a  little  copper  tea-kettle  which  she  only  used 
on  great  occasions,  and  which  was,  she  fancied,  precisely 
the  colour  of  the  new  postman's  hair  in  the  sunshine.  He 
had  a  nice  smile,  too,  and  such  quick,  bright,  brown  eyes. 
And  then  that  medal,  and  those  clasps  and  orders — 
decidedly  Postman  Chris  appeared  to  the  schoolmistress 
somewhat  in  the  light  of  a  hero. 


48  DORSET  DEAR 

All  the  evening  she  thought  of  his  brown  face  and  his 
pleasant  voice,  and  of  how  his  hair  had  flashed  in  the  sun. 
On  going  home  she  got  down  the  copper  tea-kettle  and 
looked  at  it,  turning  it  about  in  the  lamplight — yes,  it 
really  recalled  the  glow  of  the  new  postman's  hair. 

When,  on  the  next  day,  Ruby  heard  the  regular  and 
rapid  steps  approaching,  she  stood  for  a  moment  in  doubt ; 
should  she  go  indoors,  or  should  she  give  the  man  a  civil 
good-day  as  he  passed. 

She  chose  the  latter  alternative,  but  as  she  opened  her 
lips  to  speak  the  words  died  on  them,  for  Postman  Chris, 
once  more  pausing  in  front  of  the  gate,  dropped  on  his 
knees  and  bowed  his  head.  Their  eyes  met  as  he  raised 
it  again,  and  he  said  emphatically :  "  I  kneel  to  the 
prettiest ". 

Then,  springing  to  his  feet,  he  was  gone  before  Ruby 
had  time  to  recover  from  her  astonishment.  She  went 
inside  the  larger  schoolroom  and  sat  down  on  the  nearest 
bench,  trembling  from  head  to  foot. 

What  did  the  man  mean  ?  Was  he  laughing  at  her  ? 
No,  the  brown  eyes  had  looked  into  hers  with  as  earnest 
and  straightforward  a  gaze  as  was  to  be  found  in  the  eyes 
of  man.  Was  he  courting  her  then  ?  It  looked  like  it, 
but  what  a  strange  way  to  set  about  it.  No  preliminaries 
— no  permission  asked — not  even  a  question  exchanged 
between  them.  Did  he  intend  to  carry  out  the  third  part 
of  the  programme  with  the  same  speed  and  decision  with 
which  he  had  set  about  fulfilling  the  first  two  ? 

Ruby  blushed  hotly  to  herself,  and  then  tossed  her  head. 
She  was  not  to  be  won  without  due  wooing,  and  after  all 


POSTMAN  CHRIS  49 

was  she,  in  any  event,  to  be  won  by  this  man  ?  She  knew 
nothing  of  him  except  that  he  was  a  reservist  with  a  small 
pension,  and  that  he  was  a  postman — a  village  postman. 
Was  it  likely  that  a  girl  of  her  education  and  position 
would  throw  herself  away  on  a  fellow  like  that — even  if  he 
had  a  kindly  face,  and  a  nice  way  of  looking  at  one,  and 
hair  the  colour  of  a  copper  tea-kettle  ?  Besides,  he  should 
know  better  than  to  approach  her  with  so  light  a  spirit. 

The  next  day  when  Postman  Chris  came  swinging  along 
the  Branston  road  the  schoolhouse  porch  was  empty,  the 
door  bolted  and  barred.  For  a  full  moment  he  stood 
gazing  towards  it,  and  Ruby,  peering  cautiously  out  at 
him  from  behind  the  sheltering  blackboard,  saw  his  ex- 
pression change  from  the  eager  tenderness  which  had  for 
the  fraction  of  a  second  almost  made  her  wish  that  she 
were  indeed  standing  in  the  porch,  to  one  of  hurt  and 
proud  surprise. 

He  wheeled  about  without  delay,  and  the  sound  of  his 
steps  fell  like  a  knell  upon  her  heart. 

Acting  upon  an  unaccountable  impulse  she  flung  open 
the  door  and  darted  to  the  gate,  but  Postman  Chris  never 
turned  his  head. 

On  the  next  day  she  again  watched  from  behind  the 
blackboard,  and  saw  the  postman  march  past,  without  so 
much  as  a  glance  either  to  right  or  to  left.  On  the  day 
after,  strange  to  relate,  Miss  Ruby  Damory,  the  school- 
mistress, happened  to  be  correcting  exercises  in  the  porch 
when  the  postman  from  Chudbury-Marshall  walked  by ; 
but  Postman  Chris  never  caught  sight  of  the  school- 
mistress. He  was  whistling  as  he  walked,  and  held  a 

4 


5o  DORSET  DEAR 

little  cane  in  his  hand  with  which  he  switched  at  the 
hedge.  When  he  passed  the  school-gate  he  tapped  it 
with  his  cane,  and  subsequently  drew  it  along  the  railings 
which  bordered  the  yard  ;  but  he  never  turned  his  head. 

There  was  no  afternoon  post  on  Sunday,  but  Postman 
Chris  was  at  Evening  Church,  and  there  Ruby  saw  him 
with  the  light  of  the  stained-glass  window  falling  on  his 
uncovered  head  and  making  a  very  nimbus  of  his  hair. 

When  Monday  afternoon  came  she  was  standing,  not  in 
the  school  porch  but  at  the  gate,  and  when  Postman  Chris 
drew  near  she  accosted  him  in  a  small  voice  which  did 
not  sound  like  hers.  Indeed,  she  felt  at  the  time  as  though 
it  were  not  she  herself  who  was  thus  laying  aside  maidenly 
dignity,  but  some  wicked  little  spirit  within  her,  who  acted 
for  her  against  her  will. 

"  Good-day,  postman,"  said  Ruby,  or  the  demon  within 
her. 

Postman  Chris  brought  his  heels  together  and  saluted — 
not  having  yet  learnt  to  lay  aside  this  habit — but  his  face 
wore  an  expression  of  surprise. 

"  Have  you  got  a  letter  for  me,  to-day  ? "  went  on  the 
voice. 

"  Name  ? "  said  Chris  succinctly. 

"  Miss  Ruby  Damory,"  came  the  hurried  answer. 

The  postman  shook  his  head. 

"  I'm  expecting  a  letter,"  went  on  Ruby  confusedly. 
"  Perhaps  you  may  have  left  one  at  my  lodgings  in  Little 
Branston?  I  live  at  Mrs.  Maidment's  at  the  corner  of 
Green  Lane." 

The  postman  looked  at  her  with  an  expression  which 


POSTMAN  CHRIS  51 

would  seem  to  indicate  that  Ruby's  place  of  abode  was  a 
matter  of  supreme  indifference  to  him. 

"  If  any  letter  comes  as  is  directed  there,  of  course  it 
will  be  left  there,"  he  said,  with  a  coldly  business  like  air. 

"  You  didn't  leave  one  for  me,  to-day,  I  suppose  ? " 
faltered  Ruby. 

"  Not  as  I  know  on,"  returned  Chris  stolidly. 

Tears  rushed  to  the  girl's  eyes;  she  felt  wounded, 
insulted  by  this  sudden  change  from  warm  admiration — 
admiration  which  possibly  might  have  ripened  to  some- 
thing else — to  complete  indifference.  She  hastily  turned 
away  her  head  to  conceal  them,  but  not  before  she  had 
caught  sight  of  a  kind  of  gleam  in  the  postman's  brown 
eyes. 

"  Are  ye  so  terrible  disappointed  ? "  he  inquired  roughly, 
not  to  say  harshly. 

"  I — oh,  yes,  of  course  I  am." 

She  spoke  truly  enough,  poor  girl,  though  her  disap- 
pointment arose  from  another  cause  than  the  ostensible 
one. 

Chris  eyed  her  sharply. 

"  Well,  it'll  come  in  time,  I  suppose  ! "  he  remarked,  still 
in  the  same  surly  tone,  "  and  when  it  do  come,  you  shall 
have  it." 

And  thereupon  he  saluted,  hitched  up  his  bag,  and 
walked  away. 

Ruby  went  back  to  the  school-porch,  with  a  scarlet  face 
and  a  mist  before  her  eyes  : — 

"  He's  a  rude  fellow,"  she  said ;  "  I'll  think  of  him  no 
more." 


Si  DORSET  DEAR 

But  she  was  in  a  manner  forced  to  think  of  him. 

It  was  an  unkind  Fate,  indeed,  which  decreed  that  Post- 
man Chris  Ryves'  beat  should  bring  him  under  Ruby 
Damory's  notice  twice  in  the  day.  Early  in  the  morning, 
while  still  in  her  little  lodging  at  the  corner  of  Green  Lane, 
she  heard  his  brisk  step  ring  out  beneath  her  window,  and 
looking  down,  as  indeed  she  sometimes  did  from  beneath 
the  corner  of  her  blind,  she  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  blue 
uniform  and  a  red  head  ;  but  Postman  Chris  never  looked 
up,  and  no  letter  was  ever  left  for  Miss  Ruby  Damory, 
care  of  Mrs.  Maidment. 

Then  as  the  church  clock  struck  half-past  four  a  tall 
figure  was  always  to  be  seen  swinging  along  behind  the 
green  hedge,  which  drew  near  the  school-gate,  and  passed 
by  the  school-yard  without  a  single  glance  at  the  mistress 
correcting  exercises  in  the  porch. 

It  was  out  of  pure  contradictoriness  of  course  that  Ruby 
Damory  learned  to  listen  for  that  step  and  to  watch  for 
that  figure.  She  grew  thin  and  pale,  slept  brokenly,  and 
dreamt  frequently  about  Postman  Chris  ;  and  Mrs.  Maid- 
ment averred  almost  with  tears  that  Miss  Damory  seemed 
to  have  no  relish  for  her  victuals,  and  could  indeed  be 
scarce  persuaded  to  eat  a  radish  with  her  tea. 

One  day  the  girl  took  herself  seriously  to  task.  "  I  am 
a  fool  and  worse,"  she  said.  "  I  must  make  an  end  of  it. 
The  man  does  not  care  a  snap  of  his  fingers  for  me — I'll 
try  to  forget  he's  in  the  world." 

Therefore  she  refrained  from  peeping  out  from  behind 
her  blind  on  the  following  morning,  and,  in  the  afternoon, 
she  locked  up  the  schoolhouse  directly  the  children  had  left, 


POSTMAN  CHRIS  53 

and  proceeded  homewards  with  the  exercise-books  under 
her  arm.  But  whether  because  Postman  Chris  was  more 
punctual  than  usual  that  day,  or  because  Ruby  Damory 
walked  slowly,  this  manoeuvre  did  not  have  the  desired 
effect,  for,  strange  to  say,  the  postman  overtook  her  on 
the  road. 

Ruby  had  heard  him  coming,  and  had  made  valiant 
resolution  not  to  look  round,  but  when  he  came  up  with 
her  she  could  not  resist  turning  towards  him,  and  their 
eyes  met. 

"  Did  you  speak  ? "  said  Postman  Chris. 

"No — I — I  —  "  She  stopped  short;  her  heart  was 
thumping  so  violently,  indeed,  that  she  could  scarcely 
breathe. 

"  I  thought  you  might  have  a  letter  for  me,"  she  mur- 
mured at  last,  in  the  frantic  endeavour  to  cover  her 
confusion. 

"  Not  I,"  said  the  postman. 

He  made  as  if  he  would  pass  on,  but  wheeled  round 
again.  "What  have  you  been  doing  to  yourself?"  he 
asked  sharply. 

"  I  ?     Oh,  nothing." 

"  Ye  bain't  half  the  maid  ye  was,"  insisted  Chris,  eye- 
ing her  with  severe  disapproval.  "  Been  frettin'  about 
summat?" 

If  Ruby  had  been  pale  before,  she  was  rosy  enough  now. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ? "  she  stammered  ;  "  what  makes 
you  say  that  ? " 

"  I  thought  you  mid  be  disapp'inted-like  about  that 
letter,"  responded  the  postman. 


54  DORSET  DEAR 

"  Oh,  the  letter.     Yes — 'tis  very  strange  it  doesn't  come." 

"Well,  it's  none  o'  my  fault,"  retorted  Chris  roughly. 
"  Ye  needn't  look  at  me  like  that.  I'd  bring  it  to  ye  fast 
enough  if  'twas  there." 

"Well,  of  course — I  never  thought  you  wouldn't.     I'm 

sure  I  never  said  anything "  cried  poor  Ruby,  more 

and  more  agitated. 

"'Ye  shouldn't  go  frettin'  yourself  though,"  he  remarked. 
"  That  won't  make  it  come  any  faster.  And  you  shouldn't 
blame  me." 

"  I  don't  blame  you,"  gasped  the  girl.  "  I  don't — indeed 
I  don't " — but  here,  in  spite  of  herself,  her  voice  was  lost 
in  a  burst  of  sobs. 

Postman  Chris  set  down  his  bag  and  produced  a  khaki 
pocket  handkerchief — a  relic  no  doubt  of  South  African 
days.  This  he  tendered  very  gallantly  to  Ruby,  who,  if 
truth  be  told,  was  at  that  moment  at  a  loss  for  one,  having 
used  her  own  to  wipe  out  a  particularly  impracticable  sum 
from  a  small  pupil's  slate. 

She  accepted  the  offering  in  the  spirit  in  which  it  was 
meant,  dried  her  eyes,  and  returned  the  handkerchief  to 
the  postman  with  a  watery  smile.  *At  that  smile  Chris 
changed  colour,  but  he  tucked  away  the  handkerchief  in 
his  sleeve  without  a  word,  respectfully  saluted,  and  departed. 
He  never  looked  back  at  the  girl,  but  as  he  walked  away 
he  said  to  himself :  "  That  there  maid,  she  be  all  I  thought 
her.  'Tis  a  pity  I  didn't  see  her  afore  she  took  up  wi' 
t'other  chap.  I  wouldn't  ha'  left  her  a-pinin'  so  long,  and 
a-waitin'  and  a-waitin'  for  a  letter  what  never  comes.  But 
she'll  stick  to  him — ah,  sure  she'll  stick  to  him." 


POSTMAN  CHRIS  55 

And  with  that  he  heaved  a  profound  sigh,  and  turned 
off  in  the  direction  of  the  post-office. 

The  former  mode  of  procedure  was  now  changed.  Ruby 
locked  up  the  schoolhouse  every  day  after  lesson-time 
and  Postman  Chris  regularly  overtook  her  on  the  way 
home.  By  mutual  consent  they  avoided  the  painful  sub- 
ject of  the  letter  and  conversed  on  indifferent  topics ;  and 
more  than  once  when  Chris  walked  away  he  muttered 
to  himself:  "She  be  the  prettiest,  and  she  be  the  wittiest, 
and  she  be — ah,  'tis  a  dalled  pity  I  weren't  on  the  field 
first." 

One  day  when  the  well-known  step  came  up  behind 
Ruby  it  was  accompanied  by  a  shout : — 

"  Hi ! "  cried  Postman  Chris  ;  "  hi !  Miss  Damory !  I've 
a-got  summat  for  ye  at  last." 

Ruby  turned  towards  him  without  any  very  great  elation, 
for,  if  truth  be  told,  a  letter  from  her  only  correspondent 
had  never  caused  her  heart  to  beat  one  tittle  faster  than 
its  wont.  But  as  Chris  came  up  with  an  excited  face  she 
felt  she  could  do  no  less  than  simulate  great  delight  at  his 
news. 

"  At  last ! "  cried  she,  holding  out  her  hand  for  the  letter. 
But  Chris  did  not  deliver  it  up  at  once.  He  looked  up 
the  road  and  down  the  road — it  was  indeed  little  more 
than  a  lane,  and  at  that  hour  solitary  enough ;  there  was 
a  strange  flash  in  his  eye. 

"  This'll  be  the  end  of  all  between  you  and  me,  I  sup- 
pose ? "  said  he.  "  Ye'll  have  got  your  letter,  and  ye'll  not 
care  for  seein'  me  come  no  more.  I've  a  mind  to  make 
you  pay  for  it." 


56  DORSET  DEAR 

Ruby's  extended  hand  dropped  by  her  side,  and  she 
started  back. 

"  Here's  a  Fine  Thing,"  said  Postman  Chris,  still  with 
that  gleam  in  his  eye  as  he  held  up  the  letter.  "  Here's  a 
Fine  Thing  and  a  very  Fine  Thing  ;  what's  the  owner  of 
Fine  Thing  to  do  ?  " 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  whispered  Ruby. 

"  'Tis  your  turn  to  pay  the  forfeit  now ! "  cried  he.  "  I've 
bowed  to  the  wittiest  and  knelt  to  the  prettiest ;  I'd  have 
finished  the  job  if  you'd  ha'  let  me.  Tis  your  turn,  I  say ; 
I'll  let  you  off  all  but  the  last." 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  take  me  for,  Chris  Ryves," 
cried  Ruby  tremulously.  "  I  think  you  should  be  ashamed 
of  yourself.  You  ought  to  know  enough  of  me  by  this 
time  to  see  that  I'm  not  that  kind  of  girl." 

"Well,  I  be  that  kind  o'  man,"  returned  Chris  obsti- 
nately. "  This  here's  the  end — this  here's  my  last  chance. 
If  you  want  your  precious  letter,  you  must  pay  for  it." 

"  How  dare  you  ? "  cried  Ruby,  turning  as  white  as  a 
sheet.  "  You  are  very  much  mistaken,  Mr.  Ryves.  I'd 
rather  die — than — than " 

"Than  have  anything  to  say  to  me,"  he  interrupted 
fiercely.  "  Oh,  I  know  that  very  well,  Miss  Damory ; 
you're  not  for  the  likes  o'  me,  as  you  did  show  me  plain 
enough  at  the  beginning  of  our  acquaintance.  But  a 
chap  isn't  so  very  bad  if  he  does  ask  for  a  crumb  before 
the  whole  loaf  is  handed  over  to  another  man.  Give  me 
one,  Ruby — just  one  ! " 

Ruby  backed  away  from  him  against  the  hedge. 

"  This  is  an  insult,"  she  cried. 


POSTMAN  CHRIS  57 

"An  insult!"  he  repeated,  suddenly  sobered.  "Oh,  if 
you  look  on  it  that  way.  There's  your  letter,"  he  went 
on,  dropping  his  voice.  "  There's  your  letter,  Miss  Damory  ; 
I  hope  it'll  give  ye  every  joy  and  satisfaction." 

And  with  that  he  handed  the  disputed  document  to  the 
schoolmistress,  took  off  his  hat  with  a  flourish,  and  marched 
away  quick  time.  Not  so  quick,  however,  but  that  a  little 
petulant  cry  fell  upon  his  ears,  and,  wheeling  involuntarily, 
he  saw  that  the  letter  had  been  flung  upon  the  ground, 
and  that  Ruby  Damory  was  leaning  against  the  hedge 
with  her  face  buried  in  her  hands. 

Chris  came  back  at  the  double. 

"  There  ! "  he  cried  penitently.  "  I'm  a  brute  beast.  I 
beg  your  pardon,  my  maid.  I'm  truly  sorry — truly,  I  am." 

"Oh,"  sobbed  Ruby,  "how  could  you  be  so  unkind  ?" 

"  I'm  sure  I  don't  know  how  I  came  for  to  forget  myself 
like  that,"  he  returned  ruefully;  "but  I'll  never  offend 
again,  Miss  Damory — never." 

"  To  expect  me — to — to  do  that,"  faltered  Ruby,  "  when 
you'd  never  said  a  word  of  love  to  me — when  you'd  never 
even  asked  to  walk  with  me." 

The  postman's  brown  face  assumed  a  puzzled  air ;  he 
drew  a  step  nearer,  and  picked  up  the  letter. 

"  But,"  said  he ;  then  paused,  and  once  more  tendered 
the  document  to  the  schoolmistress. 

"  Oh,  bother !  "  cried  she  irritably.     (<  It'll  keep." 

Chris's  countenance  lit  up  suddenly. 

"  Will  it,  indeed  ? "  cried  he.  "  That's  a  tale— a  very 
different  tale.  There,  when  I  was  comin'  along  wi'  that 
letter,  'twas  all  I  could  do  not  to  bury  it  or  to  drop  it  into 


58  DORSET  DEAR 

a  ditch.  I  mastered  myself,  ye  know,  but  I  were  terr'ble 
tempted,  and  that  was  why,"  he  added  with  a  sly  glance, 
"  I  did  look  for  some  reward." 

"  But  why  did  you  want  to  destroy  my  aunt's  letter  ? " 
asked  Ruby. 

"  Your  aunt ! "  exclaimed  Chris.  "  Your  aunt !  Well, 
that  beat's  all." 

He  took  off  his  hat  and  waved  it ;  he  danced  a  kind  of 
jig  upon  the  footpath ;  he  threw  himself  sideways  against 
the  hedge,  laughing  all  the  while,  so  that  Ruby  stared  in 
amazement.  Suddenly  he  composed  himself. 

"  That  be  another  tale,  indeed,  my  maid,"  said  he.  "  I 
were  a-thinking  all  the  time  'twas  your  young  man  you 
was  expectin'  to  hear  from.  But  why  was  you  always  so 
eager  on  the  look-out  for  me?" 

"  I'm  sure  I  wasn't,"  said  Ruby,  and  she  blushed  to  the 
roots  of  her  hair.  She  dared  not  look  at  Chris  for  a  full 
moment,  but  at  last  was  constrained  to  raise  her  eyes  to 
his  face,  and  there,  lo,  and  behold !  he  was  blushing  too. 
And  looking  at  her — yes — with  that  veiy  self-same  ex- 
pression which  she  had  seen  in  his  eyes  on  the  morning 
when  she  had  first  hidden  herself  behind  the  black- 
board. He  came  a  step  nearer,  and  his  blue-coated  arm 
began  to  insinuate  itself  between  the  hedge  and  her  trim 
waist. 

"  Then  why,  my  maid,"  he  began  gently — "  that  there 
game,  ye  know — why  didn't  you  let  me  finish? " 

"Why,"  said  Ruby,  between  laughing  and  crying,  "be- 
cause you  hadn't  begun." 

He  whistled  softly  under  his  breath. 


POSTMAN  CHRIS  59 

"  Shall  us  begin  now  ? "  said  he.  "  You  and  me — we'll 
do  it  proper  this  time." 

"  Begin  courting  ? "  said  she  innocently. 

"  Yes,  we'll  play  the  game  right.  Here's  a  Fine  Thing 
and  a  very  Fine  Thing — that's  you,  my  dear — now  what's 
the  owner  of  this  Fine  Thing  to  do  ?  The  owner — that's 
me — why — this " 

He  accompanied  the  word  with  appropriate  action. 

"  For  shame ! "  cried  she,  in  a  tone  which  nevertheless 
was  not  displeased,  "you've  begun  at  the  wrong  end  after 
all." 

"  Not  at  all,"  he  retorted,  "  'tis  the  proper  way  to  start  a 
courtship.  I'll  tell  ye  summat,  Ruby,  my  maid.  We'll 
have  the  banns  put  up  on  Sunday." 


KEEPER  GUPPY. 

"  LARD  ha'  mercy  me  !  What  be  doin',  Jan  ?  You  that's 
only  jist  out  o'  your  bed  !  Whatever  'ud  Doctor  say  ? 
Boots  too  !  Where  be  goin'  ?  " 

Old  John  Guppy  cast  a  lowering  glance  at  his  spouse, 
and  continued  to  button  his  gaiters  in  silence.  This  task 
concluded,  he  stretched  out  his  hand  and  pointed  impera- 
tively to  the  gun  slung  over  the  chimney-piece. 

"  Reach  that  down,"  he  commanded. 

"  Ye're  never  goin'  out !  You  as  has  been  four  month 
and-  more  on  your  back  !  What's  the  use  on't  ?  There's 
a  new  keeper  yonder — new  ways,  and  strangers  pretty 
nigh  everywhere.  I'd  ha'  had  a  bit  more  sperrit  nor  to 
go  up  there  where  I  bain't  wanted." 

"  I  be  goin',  woman.  Squire  do  pay  I  money,  an'  I'll 
give  en  his  money's  worth.  I  must  have  an  eye  to  things, 
or  they'll  be  gettin'  in  a  reg'lar  caddie  up  yon.  New 
keeper,  he'll  not  know  so  very  much  about  the  place,  and 
Jim — he  were  always  a  terr'ble  sammy — he  never  did  seem 
to  see  what  was  under  his  nose  wi'out  I  were  there  to  rub 
it  into  it." 

"Well,  but  Jan,  the  bit  o'  money  what  Squire  gives 
'ee  is  a  pension — same  as  what  soldiers  an'  sick-like  do 

get  i'  their  ancient    years.     Squire  don't  expect  'ee  to 

60 


KEEPER  GUPPY  61 

do  no  more  work  for  en  now,  and  ye  be  so  fearful  punished 
wi'  the  rheumatics,  an'  all.  No — '  Mrs.  Guppy,'  says 
Squire  to  I,  so  considerate  as  could  be,  '  Mrs.  Guppy,'  he 
says,  '  Jan  have  served  I  faithful  nigh  upon  two  score  year 
— now  he  can  take  a  bit  o'  rest,'  he  says  ;  '  I've  a-made 
sure  as  he'll  be  comfortable  in  's  old  age.  The  pension 
'ull  be  paid  reg'lar  so  long  as  he  do  live,'  says  he,  '  or  so 
long  as  I  do  live,'  he  says,  laughin'  cheerful-like,  '  for  'pon 
my  word,  I  do  think  your  Jan  '11  very  likely  see  I  down 
— he  be  uncommon  tough,  so  old  as  he  mid  be,'  says 
Squire.  'And  if  I  do  go  first,  my  son  '11  see  as  he 
wants  for  nothin'  in  his  time,'  he  says.  So  let  I  light 
your  pipe,  Jan,  my  dear,  and  sit  'ee  down  sensible  like,  i' 
the  chimbley  corner — 'tis  the  best  place  for  'ee,  good 
man." 

"  You  can  light  my  pipe,  if  you  like,"  said  John,  still 
gloomily,  "  but  I  be  goin'  up-along  all  the  same.  Things 
'ull  be  goin'  to  ruin  if  I  don't  tell  'em  how  they  used  to  be 
carried  on  i'  my  time." 

u  Id'  'low  ye'll  not  get  so  far,"  said  Mrs.  Guppy  ;  "  but 
of  all  the  obstinate  men — well,  there,  'tis  a  good  thing  as 
the  A'mighty  made  half  the  world  o'  womenfolk,  else 
everythin'  'ud  be  fair  topsy-turvy." 

John  wedged  his  pipe  firmly  in  the  corner  of  his  mouth, 
put  his  gun  under  his  arm,  and,  taking  his  thick  stick 
from  the  chimney  corner,  set  forth,  without  vouchsafing 
any  answer  ;  he  limped  painfully  as  he  walked,  and  Mrs. 
Guppy,  looking  sorrowfully  after  him,  opined  that  he'd 
have  had  enough  of  it  afore  he'd  gone  half  a  mile.  But 
though  she  had  been  wedded  to  John  for  thirty-five  years, 


62  DORSET  DEAR 

she  had  not  yet  learned  the  quality  of  his  spirit ;  he 
uttered  many  groans  as  he  shambled  along,  and  lifted  the 
poor  limb,  which  had  so  long  been  well-nigh  useless,  with 
increasing  effort,  but  he  held  bravely  on  his  way  until  he 
reached  his  destination,  a  vast  stretch  of  land,  half  park, 
half  down,  peopled  by  innumerable  rabbits  and  furnished 
with  copses  and  plantations,  which  no  doubt  afforded  cover 
to  game  of  every  kind.  Here  John  paused  for  the  first 
time,  turned  his  head  on  one  side,  clicked  his  tongue  and 
jerked  forward  his  gun  with  a  knowing  air  as  a  rabbit 
crossed  his  path. 

"  If  Jt  'ad  ha'  been  loaded  I'd  ha'  made  short  work  o' 
thee,  my  bwoy,"  he  remarked.  "  There  don't  seem  to  be 
so  many  o'  you  about  as  there  did  used  to  be  i'  my  time, 
though — not  by  a  long  ways.  That  there  noo  chap  'ull  ha' 
let  ye  go  down,  I  reckon.  There  bain't  many  like  poor 
old  Jan  Guppy — nay,  I'll  say  that  for  ye,  Jan.  You  was 
worth  your  salt  while  you  were  about — 'e-es,  and  so  long 
as  ye  be  above  ground  Id'  'low  you'll  make  it  worth 
Squire's  while  to  keep  ye." 

Having  delivered  this  tribute  to  himself  with  a  con- 
scientiously impartial  air,  he  proceeded  on  his  way,  and 
presently  came  in  sight  of  the  keeper's  cottage,  or  rather 
lodge,  set  midway  in  the  long  avenue  which  led  to  the 
Squire's  mansion,  and  smiled  to  himself  at  the  sudden  out- 
cry of  canine  voices  which  greeted  his  approach. 

"  There  they  be,  the  beauties  !  That's  Jet — I'd  know  her 
bark  among  a  thousand.  Id'  'low  she  knows  my  foot,"  as 
one  voice  detached  itself  from  the  chorus  and  exchanged 
its  warning  note  for  a  strangled  whine  of  rapture.  "  She'll 


KEEPER  GUPPY  63 

break  that  chain  o'  hers  if  they  don't  let  her  loose.  'Ullo, 
Jet,  old  girl !  Hi,  Rover  !  Pull  up,  Bess  ! " 

All  the  barks  had  now  ceased,  and  a  pointer  came  scurry- 
ing to  the  gate,  followed  by  a  large  retriever. 

"  There  ye  be,  my  lads — too  fat,  too  fat.  Ah,  they  be 
feedin'  o'  them  too  well  now — not  so  good  for  work,  Id' 
'low !  Poor  old  Jet !  Ye  be  tied  up,  bain't  ye  ?  There, 
we'll  come  to  ye." 

Passing  through  the  wicket-gate,  he  was  limping  un- 
ceremoniously round  to  the  back  of  the  cottage,  when  the 
door  was  thrown  open  and  the  astonished  figure  of  the 
keeper's  wife  appeared  in  the  aperture. 

"  Mornin',  mum,"  said  John,  lifting  his  hand  halfway 
to  his  forelock,  which  was  his  nearest  approach  to  a 
polite  salutation  when  in  parley  with  folks  of  Mrs. 
Sanders'  degree.  "  I  be  Mr.  Guppy,  what  was  keeper 
here  afore  your  master.  I  be  jist  come  to  take  a  look 
about." 

"  Oh,  indeed,"  said  Mrs.  Sanders,  who  was  a  very  genteel 
and  superior  person  ;  "  my  husband  would  have  had  great 
pleasure  in  taking  you  round,  Mr.  Guppy,  but  he's  out  just 
at  present." 

"  No  matter  for  that,  mum,  I'll  go  by  myself.  What, 
Jet !  There  ye  be,  my  beauty ;  dear,  to  be  sure,  a  body 
'ud  never  think  'twas  the  same  dog.  She  do  seem  to  ha' 
fell  away  terr'ble,  mum." 

Jet,  a  curly-coated  black  spaniel,  was  at  that  moment 
straining  wildly  at  her  chain,  and  wriggling  her  little  black 
body  in  such  spasms  of  ecstasy  at  the  sight  of  her  old 
master  that  it  would  have  needed  a  very  sharp  eye  to  detect 


64  DORSET  DEAR 

any  alteration  in  her  appearance,  if,  indeed,  such  existed  ; 
but  John  spoke  in  a  tone  of  conviction. 

"  She  hain't  half  the  dog  she  were.  What  do  you  feed  her 
on,  mum  ?  Jet,  she  did  used  to  be  dainty — didn't  ye,  Jet  ? 
Her  coat  do  stare  dreadful,  mum,  now  don't  it  ?  A  prize 
dog  didn't  ought  to  have  its  coat  neglected  like  that. 
When  I  had  the  charge  o'  she,  dally  !  if  I  didn't  comb 
and  brush  her  mom  an'  night,  same  as  if  she'd  been  a 
young  lady.  Be  dalled  if  I  didn't !  Where  be  your 
master,  mum  ? " 

Mrs.  Sanders'  face,  always  somewhat  frosty  in  expres- 
sion, had  become  more  and  more  pinched  and  supercilious 
during  the  colloquy,  and  she  now  replied  extremely  dis- 
tantly that  she  couldn't  say  for  certain  where  Mr.  Sanders 
might  be,  but  that  very  likely  he  was  looking  after  the 
young  pheasants. 

"  Ah  ! "  commented  John,  with  interest ;  "  and  where 
mid  he  ha'  got  them  this  year  ? " 

"  On  this  side  of  the  North  Plantation,"  returned  the 
lady  unwillingly. 

"  A  bad  place,  mum,  a  very  bad  place  ;  no  birds  'ull  ever 
do  well  there.  If  he'd  a-come  to  I,  I  could  ha'  telled  en 
that.  They'll  never  thrive  up  yon  in  that  draughty  place 
— no,  that  they  won't ;  and  it'll  be  too  cold  for  'em.  I'm 
afeared  he'll  have  a  bad  season.  The  North  Plantation — 
dear,  some  folks  doesn't  know  much !  Well,  I'll  go  and 
have  a  look  at  'em,  and  if  I  do  see  your  husband,  I  mid  be 
able  to  gie  en  a  word  or  two  o'  advice." 

"  Ho !  no  need  for  that,  I  think,"  cried  Mrs.  Sanders 
wrathfully.  "  'Tisn't  very  likely  as  my  husband,  wot  'as 


KEEPER  GUPPY  65 

lived  in  the  fust  o'  families,  and  been  keeper  to  a  markis, 
'ud  want  to  take  advice  from  an  old  gentleman  like  you, 
Mr.  Guppy,  as  has  never  left  the  one  place  all  your  life." 

"  I  could  have  advised  en  agen  the  North  Plantation, 
anyhow,"  said  John  stolidly.  "Well,  I'll  wish  'ee  good  day, 
mum.  I'll  be  goin'  my  ways  up-along." 

And  he  hobbled  off,  muttering  to  himself  as  he  went : 
"  The  North  Plantation  !  The  chap  must  be  a  fool !  .  .  . 
They  poor  dogs,  they  was  glad  to  see  I  ! — jist  about ;  but 
bain't  he  a  sammy  !  There  he  do  go  and  feed  up  the 
shooting  dogs  so  as  they  be  for  all  the  world  like  pigs,  and 
Jet,  what  we  used  to  keep  same  as  a  little  queen,  he  do 
seem  to  take  no  more  notice  of  nor  if  she  was  a  cat ! 
Poor  Jet !  How  she  did  cry  to  get  to  I !  Well,  well !  I 
may  be  able  to  put  things  straight  a  bit." 

Proceeding  at  his  slow  pace,  the  pilgrimage  to  the  North 
Plantation  was  a  matter  of  considerable  time,  and  it  was 
noon  before  he  halted  at  length  beside  the  enclosure  where 
hundreds  of  tiny  pheasant  chicks  ran  in  and  out  of  their 
several  coops,  with  a  venturesomeness  much  deplored  by 
their  distracted  hen  foster-mothers. 

A  tall,  middle-aged  man  was  walking  about  amid  the 
pens,  with  a  proudly  proprietary  air  which  announced  him 
to  be  the  head-keeper. 

Guppy  wiped  the  sweat  of  weakness  and  fatigue  from 
his  brow  and  uttered  a  quavering  <(  Hullo ! "  Mr.  Sanders 
turned  and  walked  majestically  towards  him. 

"  What  do  you  want,"  he  inquired  briefly. 

"  I  be  jist  come  up-along  to  have  a  look  round,"  an- 
nounced John.  "I'm  Mr.  Guppy,  what  was  here  afore 

5 


66  DORSET  DEAR 

you.  You  be  in  my  shoes  now,  I  mid  say,  but  I  don't 
bear  'ee  no  grudge  for  't — no,  I  don't  bear  'ee  no  grudge," 
he  repeated  handsomely. 

"  Right,"  said  Sanders,  who  was  a  good-humoured  fellow 
enough,  if  a  little  puffed  up  by  the  dignity  of  his  position. 
"  Glad  to  see  you,  Mr.  Guppy.  We've  got  a  nice  lot  here, 
haven't  we  ?  " 

"'E-es,"  agreed  Guppy,  with  a  note  of  reserve  in  his 
voice ;  "  'e-es,  a  tidyish  lot ;  but  you'll  not  bring  up  the 
half  o'  them." 

"  Won't  I,  indeed  ? "  retorted  Sanders,  somewhat  warmly. 
"  What  makes  you  say  that  ? " 

"  I  could  ha'  telled  'ee  as  this  here  weren't  a  fit  place 
for  young  pheasants,"  returned  the  ex-keeper,  not  without 
a  certain  triumph.  "  If  you'd  ha'  come  to  I,  I  could  ha' 
telled  ye.  I've  a-been  thirty-nine  year  and  nine  month  i' 
this  place,  and  I've  never  put  the  young  pheasants  here 
once — never  once.  What  do  you  say  to  that  ?  " 

"Well,  I  say  as  every  man  has  his  own  notions,"  re- 
turned the  other.  "  You  might  have  a  fancy  for  one 
place,  as  very  likely  I'd  take  agen,  and,  on  the  other 
hand,  you  seem  to  have  some  notion  agen  this  'ere  place, 
as  /think  most  suitable." 

"  Well,  ye'll  find  out  your  mistake,  I  d'  "low,"  said  Guppy 
unflinchingly.  "Done  pretty  well  wi'  eggs  this  year?" 

"  Yes,  pretty  well  on  the  whole.  We  had  to  buy  a  few 
hundreds,  but,  as  I  told  Mr. " 

"  Buy  'em !  Buy  eggs !  You  must  ha'  managed  won- 
derful bad.  I've  a-been  here  nigh  upon  farty  year,  and 
never  bought  so  much  as  one — not  one.  Dally  !  'Twill 


KEEPER  GUPPY  67 

come  terr'ble  expensive  for  Squire  if  ye  do  carry-  on  things 
that  way." 

"  Something  had  to  be  done,  you  see,"  cried  Sanders, 
who  was  now  beginning  to  be  distinctly  nettled.  "  You 
seem  to  have  been  such  a  stick-in-the-mud  lot — there  was 
hardly  any  game  about  the  place  that  I  could  see  when  I 
come." 

"  Oh  !  and  weren't  there  ?  "  retorted  John  sarcastically. 
"  Ye  must  ha'  poor  eyes,  Maister  Sanders.  There,  'twas 
what  I  did  use  to  say  to  a  cousin  o'  Squire's  as  used  to 
come  shooting  here  twenty-five  years  ago,  and  couldn't 
hit  a  haystack.  'There  don't  seem  to  be  anything 
to  shoot,  keeper,'  he'd  say;  and  I'd  answer  back,  'Ye 
must  ha'  wonderful  poor  eyes,  sir.'  Ho,  ho !  he  were 
a  stuck-up  sort  o'  gentleman  as  were  always  a-findin' 
fault  and  a-pickin'  holes,  but  I  mind  I  had  a  good  laugh 
agen  him  once.  'Twas  a  terr'ble  hot  day,  and  we'd  walked 
miles  and  miles,  and  I  were  a  bit  done-up  at  the  end,  and 
thankful  for  a  sup  o'  beer.  And  he  comes  up  to  I,  and 
says,  laughin'  nasty-like,  'Well,  Guppy,  you  don't  seem 
much  of  a  walker.  Now,  I  could  go  all  day.'  '  'E-es,  sir,' 
says  I,  '  and  so  can  a  postman.  Id'  'low  your  bags  'ad  much 
same  weight  at  the  end  o'  your  rounds.'  " 

Sanders  vouchsafed  no  comment  on  this  anecdote,  and 
John,  propping  his  stick  against  the  paling,  proceeded  with 
much  difficulty  to  climb  over  it,  and  to  hobble  from  one 
pen  to  the  other,  stooping  stiffly  to  inspect  the  young 
birds  and  the  arrangements  made  for  their  comfort. 

"They  big  speckly  hens  is  too  heavy  for  these  here 
delicate  little  fellows,"  he  remarked.  "  Game  hens  is  the 

5* 


68  DORSET  DEAR 

best — 'twas  what  I  did  always  have.  Tis  more  in  nature 
as  the  game  hens  should  make  the  best  mothers  to  young 
pheasants.  They  be  a  poor-looking  lot,  Maister  Sanders. 
I  did  use  to  have  'em  a  deal  more  for'ard  at  this  time  o' 
year.  What  be  feedin'  'em  on  ?  " 

"  Now  look  'ere,  I'm  not  going  to  stand  any  more  o' 
this,"  thundered  the  keeper,  fairly  losing  his  temper.  "  I'm 
not  going  to  have  you  poking  and  prying  about  this  place 
no  longer.  You've  got  past  your  work,  and  I'm  doing  it 
now.  If  the  Squire's  satisfied,  that's  all  I  need  think  about. 
If  he  isn't,  he  can  tell  me  so." 

"  Ha !  no  man  likes  bein'  found  fault  with,"  returned 
Guppy  sententiously ;  "  but  sometimes  'tis  for  their  own 
good.  Now  you  take  a  word  o'  advice  from  I,  what  was 
workin'  here  afore  you  was  born  or  thought  of  very  like." 

"  I'll  not,  then  !  "  cried  the  other  angrily.  "  Get  out  o' 
this,  you  old  meddler,  or  I'll  report  you  to  the  Squire  !  " 

"  You  did  ought  to  thank  I  for  not  reportin'  of  you," 
returned  John  firmly.  "  The  Squire  do  think  a  deal  o'  I 
; — a  deal ;  but  I'd  be  sorry  to  get  a  man  into  trouble  as  do 
seem  to  be  meanin'  well.  You  mind  my  words,  keeper, 
and  you'll  find  as  they'll  come  true — ye'll  have  a  bad 
season  this  year,  and  maybe  ye'll  be  a  bit  more  ready  to 
take  advice  from  them  as  knows  more  nor  you  do.  'Tis 
the  first  year,  so  I'll  not  be  hard  on  ye." 

He  had  now  recrossed  the  wire,  repossessed  himself  of 
his  stick,  and  with  a  nod  of  farewell  at  his  irate  successor, 
turned  his  steps  homewards. 

He  spent  the  rest  of  that  day  lamenting  the  direful 
changes  which  had  taken  place  since  his  own  withdrawal 


KEEPER  GUPPY  69 

from  active  life,  and  privately  resolved  to  be  astir  early  on 
the  morrow  in  order  to  proceed  further  with  his  tour  of 
investigation. 

With  the  first  dawn,  therefore,  of  a  lovely  spring  morn- 
ing he  left  his  bed  cautiously,  dressed  in  silence,  and  made 
his  way  out  of  doors.  The  cottage  which  he  had  occupied 
since  his  resignation  of  the  keepership  was  situated  at  the 
very  end  of  the  village,  and  as  he  glanced  up  the  quiet 
street  he  could  detect  few  signs  of  life.  No  smoke  was 
yet  stealing  upwards  into  the  still  air,  no  cows  lowing  in 
the  bartons ;  the  pigeons,  indeed,  were  astir,  preening 
themselves  somewhat  sleepily,  and  cooing  in  a  confidential 
undertone,  and  the  clucking  of  hens  was  audible  here  and 
there,  while  more  musical  bird-voices  resounded  from  trees 
and  hedgerows.  The  dew  lay  heavy  on  the  long  grass  by 
the  roadside  as  John  set  forth.  The  morning  mists  had 
not  yet  disappeared,  and  the  glamour  of  dawn  still  en- 
folded the  world.  The  dew-washed  leaves  seemed  to  be 
on  fire,  as  they  caught  the  rosy  rays  of  the  morning  sun ; 
every  little  wayside  pool  gleamed  and  glittered.  The  air 
was  full  of  sweet  scents,  the  delicate,  distinctive  odour  of 
the  primrose  being  predominant,  though  here  and  there 
a  gush  of  almost  overpowering  perfume  greeted  the  old 
man's  nostrils,  as  he  passed  a  wild  apple-tree.  A  kind  of 
aromatic  undertone  came  forth  from  damp  moss,  trunks  of 
fir-trees,  springing  young  herbage,  yet  the  exquisite  fra- 
grance of  the  morning  itself  seemed  to  belong  to  none  of 
these  things  in  particular,  but  rather  to  emanate  from  the 
very  freshness  of  the  dawn. 

Old  John,  however,  plodded  onwards,  without  appearing 


70  DORSET  DEAR 

to  take  heed  of  his  surroundings ;  once,  indeed,  he  paused 
to  sniff  with  a  perturbed  expression  ;  a  fox  had  passed  that 
way.  His  eyes  peered  warily  into  the  undergrowth,  over 
the  banks,  beneath  the  hedgerows ;  he  paused  in  traversing 
a  copse,  stooped,  uttering  an  exclamation  of  astonished  dis- 
gust, and  some  few  moments  later  emerged  from  the  brake 
with  a  bulging  pocket  and  an  air  of  increased  importance. 

Jim  Neale,  the  under-keeper,  had  not  long  started  on 
his  morning  beat  when  he  was  hailed  by  a  familiar  voice, 
and  turning  beheld  his  former  chief. 

"  Hullo,  Maister  Guppy,  I  be  pure  glad  to  see  you  on 
your  legs  again.  You  be  afoot  early." 

John  surveyed  him  for  a  moment  with  an  air  of  solemn 
indignation. 

"  Tis  jist  so  well  I  were  afoot  a  bit  early,  Jim.  You  do 
want  I  at  your  back,  I  d'  'low.  Which  way  have  you  been 
a-goin'  ?  " 

"  Why,  same  as  usual — across  the  big  mead,  from  our 
place,  and  up-along  by  top  side  o'  the  park." 

"Jist  what  I  did  fancy.  You  do  seem  to  use  your  eyes 
wonderful  well,  Jim — jist  so  well  as  ever.  D'ye  mind 
how  I  used  to  tell  'ee  '  some  folks  has  eyes  and  some  has 
none ' ? " 

"  Why,  what  be  amiss  ? " 

John,  without  speaking,  put  his  hand  in  his  pocket,  and 
drew  forth  a  number  of  rabbit  snares,  sticks  and  all,  which 
he  had  picked  up  and  secreted  in  the  copse  before-men- 
tioned. 

"  Oh  !  "  said  Jim.  "  Humph  !  I  wonder  who  could  have 
put  them  there  ? " 


KEEPER  GUPPY  71 

"  Why,  Branstone  folks  what  be  always  a-hangin'  about 
seekin'  what  they  can  pick  up." 

"  Well,  'twas  a  good  job  ye  did  chance  to  come  along, 
Mr.  Guppy.  I  d'  'low  they  didn't  have  time  to  catch 
nothin'.  There  weren't  no  rabbits  in  'em,  was  there  ? " 

"  There  was  a  rabbit  in  one  of  them  though,"  retorted 
John  triumphantly  ;  "  I've  a-got  en  here  i'  my  pocket." 

"  Oh,  and  have  ye  ?  "  queried  John,  eyeing  the  pocket  in 
question  somewhat  askance.  "  Well,  it's  lucky  I've  a-met 
ye — ye  can  hand  en  over  to  me  i'stead  o'  going  all  the  way 
up  to  Sanders." 

"  I  can  hand  en  over  to  you,  can  I  ?  Thank  ye  kindly, 
Maister  Jim  ;  '  findins'  is  keepins ' — or  used  to  be  i'  my 
day.  Well,  of  all  the  cheek  !  '  Hand  en  over,'  says  he  to 
I  what  has  been  his  maister,  I  mid  say,  for  fifteen  year  and 
more.  Hand  en  over,  indeed  !  " 

Jim,  temporarily  abashed,  pushed  his  hat  a  little  to  the 
back  of  his  head,  and  stared  for  a  moment  or  two  in 
silence  ;  then  his  features  relaxed  into  a  slow  grin. 

"Ton  my  word,  if  it  do  come  to  cheek,  be  dalled  if  I 
could  say  which  of  us  has  the  most  of  it !  Ye  bain't  keeper 
here  no  longer,  Mr.  Guppy,  and  I  don't  know  as  Squire 
'ud  be  altogether  pleased  if  he  was  to  catch  you  a-pocketin' 
one  of  his  rabbits." 

John  laughed  derisively. 

"  Squire  'ud  know  a  bit  better  nor  that,"  he  remarked, 
as  soon  as  he  had  sufficiently. composed  himself.  "  Squire 
'ud  know  better  than  grudge  I  a  rabbit  arter  all  them  hun- 
dreds as  I've  a-had  the  years  and  years  as  I  were  here. 
Be  ye  a-goin'  on  now  ? " 


72  DORSET  DEAR 

"  'E-es  I  be,"  returned  Jim,  somewhat  sulkily. 

"  Then  look  sharp,  else  you'll  very  like  miss  a  good  few 
more  things  what  be  under  your  nose." 

Jim  walked  away  growling  to  himself  that  he  wasn't 
a-goin'  to  have  two  masters  if  he  knew  it,  and  that  it  was 
enough  to  be  at  one  man's  beck  and  call  without  being 
hauled  over  the  coals  by  folks  what  had  no  right  to  be 
there  at  all. 

John,  leaning  on  his  stick,  watched  the  receding  form, 
still  with  an  air  of  lofty  sovereignty,  till  it  had  disappeared, 
and  then  took  his  way  homewards,  feeling  that  he  had 
done  a  good  morning's  work. 

It  was  marvellous  how  one  so  decrepit  as  he  could 
manage  to  be  as  ubiquitous  as  he  thenceforth  became. 
His  bent  figure  and  wrinkled  face  were  perpetually  turning 
up  in  most  unexpected  quarters,  to  the  wrath  and  occasional 
dismay  of  Mr.  Sanders  and  his  underlings,  his  small  keen 
eyes  frequently  detecting  some  small  error  or  omission 
which  his  quavering  voice  was  immediately  uplifted  to 
denounce  and  reprehend.  Matters  reached  a  climax  when, 
one  sunshiny  morning,  he  discovered  the  eldest  hope  of 
the  Sanders  family  in  the  act  of  climbing  a  tree  in  search 
of  a  bird's  nest,  and,  not  content  with  boxing  the  urchin's 
ears  as  soon  as  he  descended  to  earth  again,  hauled  him 
off  by  the  collar  to  the  parental  abode.  The  boy's  outcries 
brought  his  father  to  the  door,  accompanied  by  Jim,  who 
had  chanced  to  call  in  for  orders. 

"See  here  what  I've  a-caught  your  bwoy  a-doin'  of. 
His  pocket  be  chock-full  o'  eggs — pigeon  eggs.  He  ha'n't 
a-got  no  right  to  go  into  the  woods  arter  pigeons'  eggs. 


KEEPER  GUPPY  73 

I've  brought  en  to  'ee,  Maister  Sanders,  so  as  ye  may  gie 
en  a  dressin'.  I  be  too  old  to  do  it  myself.  Nay,  nay,  at 
one  time  I  could  ha'  fetched  him  a  crack  or  two  what  'ud 
ha'  taught  en  manners.  But  I  bain't  strong  enough  for  that 
now." 

"Let  go  of  him — let  go  at  once,  I  say,"  shouted  the 
indignant  parent.  "Who  gave  you  leave  to  interfere? 
The  lad's  my  lad,  and  it's  none  o'  your  business  to  go 
meddlin'  with  him.  Come  here,  Philip-James ;  go  into 
your  mother,  boy.  He's  mauled  you  fearful." 

"Well,  you  must  be  a  soft  fellow,"  ejaculated  John  in  a 
tone  of  deep  disgust.  "  I  could  n't  ha'  believed  it !  If  7 
had  a-caught  a  bwoy  a-trespassin'  i'  my  woods  when  I  was 
here,  I'd  ha'  thrashed  him  well  for  't — let  him  be  my  son 
twenty  times  over." 

"  Trespassin'  indeed !  You're  a  trespasser  yourself," 
cried  the  keeper.  "  You've  no  business  in  these  woods 
at  all ;  you've  no  business  to  come  near  the  place.  I'll 
summons  you,  see  if  I  don't." 

"Well,  that  is  a  tale  !  "  exclaimed  John,  leaning  against 
the  gate-post  that  he  might  the  better  indulge  in  a  kind 
of  crow  of  ironical  laughter.  "  Trespass — me  trespass ;  me 
what  was  keeper  here  for  nigh  upon  farty  year.  Lard  ha' 
mercy  me  !  What'll  ye  say  next  ?  " 

"  Well,  but  it  be  trespassin',  you  know,  Maister  Guppy," 
remarked  Jim,  thrusting  his  head  round  the  lintel  of  the 
door;  "it  be  trespassin'  right  enough.  If  you  was  head- 
keeper  once,  you  bain't  head-keeper  no  more.  You  ha'n't 
got  no  call  to  be  here  at  all.  It  be  trespassin'." 

"  You   hold  your  tongue,  Jim    Neale,"  retorted   John 


74  DORSET  DEAR 

fiercely — "  hold  your  tongue  !  Who  asked  you  to  speak 
— you  as  did  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself  for  neglectin' 
the  ferrets  same  as  you  do.  The  big  dog-ferret  have  a-got 
the  mange  terr'ble  bad.  You  bain't  the  man  to  give  a 
opinion,  I  d'  'low." 

Jim,  incensed  at  this  sudden  home-thrust,  uttered  a 
forcible  exclamation,  and  proceeded  with  much  warmth : 
"  You've  a-got  a  wrong  notion  i'  your  head  altogether, 
Maister  Guppy ;  you  be  a-trespassin'  jist  the  same  as  you 
was  a-poachin'  t'  other  marnin'." 

"  Poachin' ! "  cried  John,  his  face  purple  with  wrath  and 
his  voice  well-nigh  strangled — "  poachin' !  Dall  'ee,  Jim, 
I'll  not  stand  here  to  be  insulted.  There,  I've  a-passed 
over  a  deal — a  deal  I  have.  I've  overlooked  it  on  account 
of  the  many  years  as  we've  a-worked  here  together,  but 
this  here  be  too  much.  I'll  report  ye,  Jim  Neale,  see  if  I 
don't ;  and  I'll  report  you  too,  Maister  Sanders,  for  insultin' 
of  I  same  as  you've  a-done.  There's  things  as  a  body 
can't  overlook,  let  him  be  so  good-natured  as  he  mid  be, 
and  there's  times  when  a  man's  dooty  do  stare  en  i'  the 
face.  I'll  report  ye  this  very  hour." 

"  That's  pretty  good,"  laughed  Sanders.  "  Upon  my 
word,  that's  pretty  good.  Maybe  Jim  an'  me  will  have 
something  to  report  to  the  Squire  too.  You'd  best  come 
along  with  me,  Jim,  and  we'll  see  who  the  Squire  listens 
to." 

"  Come  along  then,"  cried  John  valiantly,  before  Neale 
had  time  to  answer.  "  Come  along ;  we'll  see.  I  bain't 
afeard  o1  the  Squire.  The  Squire  do  know  I  so  well  as  if 
I  was  his  own  brother.  Come  on,  if  you  be  a-comin'." 


KEEPER  GUPPY  75 

The  three  set  out,  walkin'  shoulder  to  shoulder  in  grim 
silence,  the  younger  perforce  accommodating  their  pace  to 
the  slow  gait  of  the  old  man,  who  hobbled  along  between 
them,  leaning  heavily  upon  his  stick,  his  face  set  in  resolute 
lines. 

They  were  kept  waiting  for  some  little  time  until  the 
Squire  had  finished  his  breakfast,  but  were  presently  admit- 
ted into  the  billiard-room  where  they  found  him  smoking 
by  a  blazing  wood  fire,  for  he  was  of  a  chilly  temperament, 
and  though  the  morning  was  sunny,  the  air  was  still  suf- 
ficiently sharp. 

"  Hallo,  Guppy ! "  he  cried  cheerily,  as  his  eyes  fell  on 
the  old  man.  "  What !  you're  about  again,  are  you  ?  You're 
a  wonderful  old  fellow !  You'll  see  me  down,  I'm  sure, 
though  there  are  twenty  years  or  so  between  us." 

John  pulled  his  forelock  and  then  laid  his  gnarled  hand 
in  the  Squire's  outstretched  palm. 

"  You're  a  splendid  old  chap,"  said  his  former  master,  as 
he  shook  it  warmly.  "  I  must  own  I  never  thought  to  see 
you  on  your  legs  again  after  that  stroke,  coming  as  it  did 
on  the  top  of  the  rheumatics.  How  are  the  rheumatics, 
John?" 

"  Very  bad,  thank  ye,  sir.  There,  I  can  scarce  turn  i' 
my  bed,  and  when  I  do  try  for  to  walk  my  limbs  do  seem 
to  go  all  twisty-like.  I  be  fair  scraggled  wi*  it,  Squire." 

"Well,  men,  what  brought  you  here?"  inquired  their 
master,  turning  for  the  first  time  to  the  keepers,  and 
addressing  them  with  some  surprise. 

"Why,  a  rather  unpleasant  matter,  sir,  I  am  sorry  to 
say,"  returned  Sanders  respectfully,  but  a  trifle  tartly. 


76  DORSET  DEAR 

"  'Tis  a  bit  difficult  to  explain,  seein'  as  you  seem  so  taken 
up  with  Mr.  Guppy  here.  I  understood,  sir,  when  I 
accepted  your  sitooation  as  I  was  to  have  a  free  hand.  I 
didn't  look  for  no  interference  from  anybody  but  you  your- 
self, sir." 

"  Well,  haven't  you  got  a  free  hand  ?  I'm  sure  I  dont 
interfere,"  replied  the  Squire,  with  a  shrug  of  his  shoulders. 

"  'Tis  Maister  Guppy  what  be  al'ays  a-meddlin',  sir ! " 
put  in  Jim,  with  a  pull  at  his  forelock.  "  He  do  come  up- 
along  mostly  every  mornin',  a-horderin'  and  a-pickin'  holes 
here,  there,  and  everywhere.  Mr.  Sanders  and  me  do  find 
it  terr'ble  ill-conwenient." 

"  I  was  just  going  to  say,  sir,"  resumed  Sanders,  "  when 
Neale  interrupted  me" — here  he  paused  to  glare  at  his 
inferior — "as  it  was  what  I  was  never  accustomed  to — out- 
side people  comin'  and  pokin'  and  pryin'  and  fault-findin' 
and  interferin' " 

"  Oh,  dear,  how  much  more ! "  exclaimed  the  Squire, 
looking  from  one  to  the  other  in  affected  dismay,  mingled 
with  a  little  real  vexation.  "  Guppy,  what's  all  this  about?" 

"  Playse  ye,  sir,  I  couldn't  a-bear  to  see  you  a-treated 
same  as  ye  be  treated  by  them  as  ye  puts  your  trust  in. 
Everythin'  be  in  a  reg'lar  caddie  all  over  the  place — 
everythin'  be  a-goin'  wrong,  sir,  and  when  I  sees  it,  I  tells 
'em  of  it.  I  can't  do  no  different — 'tis  my  dooty.  You 
do  pay  I  by  the  week  reg'lar,  and  I  bain't  a-goin'  to  eat 
the  bread  o'  idleness — 't  'ud  stick  i'  my  in'ards — 'e-es,  that 
it  would.  '  So  soon  as  I  do  get  upon  my  legs,'  says  I,  '  I'll 
have  a  look  round  ; '  and  I  did  have  a  look  round,  and 
what  did  I  find  ?  Every  blessed  thing  a-goin'  wrong — so 


KEEPER  GUPPY  77 

I  sarces  'em  for  't.  I  wasn't  a-goin'  to  hold  my  tongue,  and 
see  you  tricked  and  abused.  I  was  easy  wi'  'em — a  dalled 
sight  too  easy — I  did  ought  to  have  reported  of 'em  before, 
but  to-day  I  couldn't  stand  it  no  longer ;  when  I  did  speak 
to  'em  they  up  and  insulted  me,  both  on  'em.  'E-es,  they 
did.  They  insulted  of  I  shameful." 

"  I  am  sorry  to  hear  that "  the  Squire  was  beginning, 

when  Mr.  Sanders,  losing  patience,  interrupted  him. 

"  Begging  your  pardon,  sir,  'tis  more  than  flesh  and  blood 
can  stand  ;  'tis  got  to  be  him  or  me — that's  all  I  can  say. 
Nobody  could  put  up  with  it.  I  found  things  in  a  very 
bad  state  when  I  came,  and  I'm  getting  them  better 
gradual,  sir,  and  doing  my  dooty  in  all  respects  as  well  as 
I  can ;  but  if  Guppy  is  to  be  allowed  to  come  pryin'  and 
spyin'  after  me,  and  findin'  fault  with  all  my  arrange- 
ments  " 

"  He  did  call  I  a  trespasser,"  broke  out  John,  who  had 
been  ruminating  over  his  private  woes,  without  taking  heed 
of  the  keeper's  indictment.  "  He  did  call  I  a  trespasser  ; 
he  did  say  I  was  trespassin'  when  I  told  en  I'd  a-been 
walk  in'  through  the  Long  Wood  yonder  where  I  did  catch 
his  little  rascal  of  a  son  a-bird's-nestin"  so  bold  as  you 
playse.  And  Jim  there,  what  did  ought  to  know  better, 
up  and  said  I  was  poachin'  last  week.  Me  poachin' !  Me 
what  brought  him  back  that  very  day  a  dozen  o'  snares 
what  I  had  picked  up  i'  the  hedge  as  he  went  gawkin' 
past  without  taking  a  bit  o'  notice  of." 

"'E-es,  but  you  found  a  rabbit  in  one  and  popped  it 
into  your  pocket ! "  cried  Jim  ire  fully.  "  Popped  it  into 
your  pocket  and  walked  off  wi'  it,  let  I  say  what  I  would." 


78  DORSET  DEAR 

"  In  course  I  did,"  retorted  John,  with  great  dignity,  "  in 
course  I  did.  'Tweren't  very  likely  as  I'd  leave  it  wi'  you. 
As  I  telled  'ee  at  the  time — says  I :  '  Squire  wouldn't 
grudge  me  a  rabbit  now  arter  all  the  hundreds  as  I've 
a-had  while  I  was  keeper  up  yonder.' " 

The  Squire  covered  his  mouth  with  his  hand,  but  tell- 
tale wrinkles  appeared  about  his  eyes,  and  the  points  of 
his  moustache  curled  significantly  upwards.  After  a 
moment  he  recovered  himself  sufficiently  to  desire  the 
keepers  to  withdraw,  announcing  that  he  would  have  a 
quiet  talk  with  John  Guppy,  and  that  no  doubt  the  matter 
could  be  arranged. 

"  So  you  had  hundreds  of  rabbits  while  you  were  in  my 
service,  John,"  he  remarked,  crossing  one  leg  over  the 
other,  and  looking  at  the  old  man  with  a  smile.  "  Didn't 
you  get  very  tired  of  them  ? " 

"  Well,  sir,  my  old  woman  be  wonderful  with  the  cookin', 
and  she  did  do  'em  up  in  a  many  different  ways.  'E-es, 
we  did  use  to  have  a  rabbit  for  dinner  four  days  out  of 
seven." 

"  Did  you  indeed  ? "  returned  his  former  master,  much 
interested  in  these  revelations.  "  Do  you  suppose,  John, 
the  other  men  had  hundreds  of  rabbits  every  year,  too  ? " 

"  Well,  sir,  it  be  a  matter  o"  taste.  Some  folks  doesn't 
fancy  rabbit ;  but,  of  course,  they  can  take  so  many  as 
they  do  want." 

"Of  course,"  agreed  the  Squire. 

"  'E-es  ;  keepers  takes  rabbits  same  as  gardeners  helps 
theirselves  to  cabbages.  I  knowed  you'd  never  begrudge 
me  that  there  little  un." 


KEEPER  GUPPY 


79 


"  No,  to  be  sure  ;  but  we  mustn't  be  too  hard  on  Jim. 
Jim  was  doing  what  he  thought  to  be  his  duty.  Now,  you 
know,  no  matter  how  many  rabbits  a  keeper  may  take  for 
himself,  he  is  not  supposed  to  allow  other  people  to  take 
any." 

"  Nay,  sir,  nay  ;  I  wouldn't  expect  it — not  other  folks. 
But  I  d'  'low  it  be  different  wi'  I,  what  was  head  over  en 
for  so  many  year.  He  didn't  ought  to  ha'  gone  and 
insulted  of  I." 

"  No,  no,  of  course  not ;  "hut  then,  you  see,  you  had 
vexed  him.  He  was  too  angry  to  discriminate  between 
poaching  and — just  helping  yourself." 

"  And  t'  other  chap,  'ee  telled  I  I  was  trespassin' ! "  re- 
sumed John  wrathfully. 

"Well,  my  dear  John,  we  must  consider  the  point  of 
view.  Every  man  has  his  own,  you  know.  As  a  matter 
of  fact,  I'm  afraid,  from  Sanders's  point  of  view,  you  were 
trespassing. 

John's  face  was  a  study. 

"  I  never  thought  to  live  to  hear  you  say  that,  Squire." 

"  I  only  said  from  his  point  of  view,"  cried  the  Squire, 
hastily.  "  He's  naturally,  perhaps,  a  little  jealous  ;  you 
were  here  so  many  years,  you  know,  and  of  course,  like  all 
young  men — young  men  will  have  foolish  notions,  John — 
he  thinks  his  way  is  the  best  way.  We  old  fogies  must 
just  give  in  for  the  sake  of  peace  and  comfort." 

"  Noo  ways,"  agreed  the  old  man,  sorrowfully ;  "  noo 
folks  and  noo  ways." 

"  As  you  heard  me  say  just  now,"  resumed  his  master, 
"  /  don't  interfere  with  him,  and,  upon  my  life,  I  think  it's 


80  DORSET  DEAR 

better  you  shouldn't  interfere,  John.  I  fancy  it  would  be 
wiser  if  you  could  just  keep  away  for  a  little  bit — then  no 
one  could  say  you  were  trespassing,  you  know." 

"  I'll  keep  away,  Squire,"  said  John.  "  No  fear ;  I'll 
keep  away.  Ye'll  not  have  to  tell  I  that  twice." 

"  You  and  I  are  free  to  have  our  own  opinions,  of  course," 
urged  the  Squire,  smiling,  "but  we'll  keep  them  to  our- 
selves— these  young  folks  you  know " 

But  John  did  not  smile  in  return  ;  his  head,  always  bent, 
drooped  almost  to  his  breast,  his  lips  moved,  but  uttered 
no  sound.  After  a  moment  or  two,  he  pulled  his  forelock, 
scraped  his  leg,  and  turned  to  depart. 

"  You're  not  going,  John  ?  " 

"  !E-es,  sir,  I  be  goin',  I  bain't  wanted  here  no  more. 
As  you  do  say,  noo  times " 

"  Now,  now,  I  can't  have  you  going  away  offended. 
Don't  you  see  how  it  is,  John  ? " 

"  Nay,  sir,  I  don't  see  nothin'  but  what  you've  a-gone 
and  thrown  over  a  old  servant  for  a  noo  un.  That  be  all 
as  I  can  see.  You  didn't  check  en  for  insultin'  of  I,  and 
you  did  uphold  him  and  made  little  of  I.  I  be  goin',  and 
you'll  never  be  troubled  wi'  I  again.  I'm  fit  for  nothin'.  I 
be  a-eatin'  of  your  bread  and  a-takin'  of  your  money  and 
doin'  nothin'  for  't.  Eatin'  the  bread  o'  idleness  I  Id'  'low 
it  'ull  fair  choke  I." 

The  Squire,  vexed  and  perplexed,  in  vain  sought  to  soothe 
him,  but  he  waved  aside  all  attempts  at  consolation,  and 
made  his  way  slowly  out  of  the  room  and  out  of  the  house. 

The  Squire  watched  him  as  he  went  tottering  down  the 
avenue.  "  What's  to  be  done  ? "  he  said  to  himself.  "  The 


KEEPER  GUPPY  81 

poor  old  chap  is  past  his  work  ;  it  would  be  cruelty  to 
allow  him  to  attempt  it.  Sanders  is  an  excellent  fellow, 
on  the  other  hand — more  go-ahead  than  dear  old  John, 
and,  it  must  be  owned,  a  better  keeper.  He  would  cer- 
tainly have  given  notice  if  I  had  allowed  John  to  continue 
his  visitations  here.  It  is  the  only  thing  to  be  done,  but  I 
can't  bear  to  see  the  poor  old  fellow  so  cut  up." 

As  Guppy  passed  the  keeper's  lodge  the  dogs  ran  for- 
ward, leaping  upon  him  and  whining.  He  patted  them 
absently,  and  then  pushed  <them  off.  "  Down,  Rover, 
down  !  There,  Bessie,  off  wi'  you ;  you  should  learn  a 
lesson  fro'  your  betters.  Stick  to  the  noo  folks,  and  get 
rid  of  the  wold.  Poor  beasts  !  they  be  fain  to  see  I,  I  d' 
'low.  Dogs  bain't  like  Christians.  They  don't  seem  to 
know  when  a  man  be  down.  They  be  faithful,  all  the 
same  ;  they  haven't  a-got  no  sense,  poor  things." 

He  was  spent  and  trembling  when  he  arrived  at  his  own 
home,  and  sank  down  in  his  chair  by  the  hearth. 

"  There,  missis,  put  away  my  gun ;  I'll  not  want  it  no 
more  ;  I  be  done  wi'  it — I  be  done  wi'  everythin'.  I  could 
wish  that  there  stroke  had  a-carried  I  off.  I  bain't  no  use 
i'  this  world  as  I  can  see.  It  do  seem  a  strange  thing  as 
the  Lard  '11  leave  ye  to  live  on  and  on  when  folks  be  tired 
o'  ye,  and  be  a  wishin'  of  ye  under  the  sod.  I  wish  I  were 
i'  my  long  home — aye,  that  I  do." 

Mrs.  Guppy  was  at  first  alarmed,  then  affected,  and 
finally  burst  into  tears. 

"I'm  sure  I  never  did  hear  a  man  go  on  the  same  as  you 
do,  Jan ;  there,  I  be  all  of  a  tremble.  What's  amiss  ? 

What's  come  to  ye?     What's  it  all  about?"    \ 

6 


8z  DORSET  DEAR 

"  Gi'  I  my  pipe,"  said  John  ;  "  there's  things  a  woman 
can't  understand." 

Not  another  word  could  she  extract  from  him  till  dinner- 
time, when  she  summoned  him  to  table. 

He  gazed  at  the  food  sourly.  "  All  charity !  "  he  mur- 
mured. "  Charity,  woman.  I  be  eatin'  what  I  haven't 
earned.  I  may  jist  so  well  go  to  the  Union." 

A  few  days  later  the  Squire's  dogcart  drew  up  at  the 
little  gate,  and  the  Squire  himself  descended  therefrom, 
carrying  a  couple  of  rabbits  which  he  extracted  from  under 
the  seat. 

"  Good-day,  John  ;  good-day,  Mrs.  Guppy.  Well,  John, 
how  are  you  ?  Cheering  up  a  bit,  I  hope." 

John  shook  his  head  slowly. 

"  I've  brought  you  a  couple  of  rabbits,"  continued  the 
Squire.  "  It  never  struck  me  till  the  other  day  how  you 
must  miss  them.  I'll  send  you  some  every  week.  There 
are  enough,  Heaven  knows." 

"  I  don't  want  no  rabbits,"  growrled  Guppy ;  "  I  ba.n't 
a-goin'  to  eat  of  'em." 

"  John  ! "  gasped  his  wife,  hardly  believing  her  ears. 

"  Put  'em  back  i'  the  cart,  woman,"  he  continued ;  "  I 
bain't  a-goin'  to  eat  no  rabbits  what  they  chaps  up  yonder 
have  a-ketched." 

"Why,  John,"  said  the  Squire,  sitting  down  beside  him, 
"  can't  you  get  over  it  ?  I  thought  you  would  be  all  right 
by  this  time." 

"  I  bain't  all  right,  Squire,  and  I  can't  get  over  it.  Nay, 
look  at  it  which  way  I  will,  I  can't.  Here  be  I,  John 
Guppy,  a  bit  scram  and  a  bit  wambly ;  but  so  sound  i'  the 


KEEPER  GUPPY  83 

head  as  ever  I  was,  whatever  my  legs  mid  be.  Here  be  I, 
anxious  for  to  do  my  dooty,  and  able  for  to  do  my  dooty, 
and  you  won't  let  I  do  it.  You  do  give  me  money  what 
I  haven't  earned ;  you  do  want  I  to  sit  here  idle  when  I'm 
as  ready  for  a  day's  work  as  any  o'  they  new-fangled  chaps 
what  you've  a-set  up  yonder  i'  my  place." 

The  Squire  sighed  and  looked  hopelessly  at  Mrs.  Guppy, 
who  stood  with  her  hands  folded  limply  at  her  waist,  and 
a  most  dolorous  expression  on  her  countenance,  shaking 
her  head  emphatically  at  every  pause  in  her  husband's 
speech.  After  a  few  further  attempts  at  consolation,  the 
Squire  rose  and  went  to  the  door,  followed  by  his  hostess. 

"What  is  to  be  done,  Mrs.  Guppy?"  he  inquired,  when 
they  were  out  of  earshot.  "  I  positively  can't  have  him 
back  up  there — he  isn't  fit  for  it ;  and  he  has  been  setting 
all  the  other  men  by  the  ears." 

"  F£!S  fair  breakin'  'is  'eart,"  murmured  Mrs.  Guppy 
dole  ally.  "  He  thinks  he  bain't  o'  no  use — and  he  bain't 
— And  it's  killin'  'im.  If  he  could  even  fancy  he  was  doing 
summat  and  ockipy  hisself  in  any  way  he'd  be  a  different 
man.  Tis  the  thought  as  nobody  wants  en  what  do  cut 
en  so." 

The  Squire  cogitated,  and  then  a  sudden  light  broke 
over  his  face. 

"  I  have  it,"  he  cried.  "  I  have  thought  of  a  job  for  the 
old  fellow !  We'll  put  him  to  rights  yet,  Mrs.  Guppy — 
see  if  we  don't !  " 

He  re-entered  the  cottage,  and  approached  the  ingle- 
nook  where  John  still  sat,  leaning  forward,  and  slowly 
rubbing  the  knees  of  his  corduroys. 


84  DORSET  DEAR 

"John,"  he  said,  "I  was  almost  forgetting  a  most  im- 
portant thing  I  wanted  to  say  to  you.  Sanders  and  Jim 
have  got  their  hands  pretty  full  up  there,  as  you  know." 

"  I  d'  'low  they  have,"  agreed  Guppy ;  "  they're  like  to 
have  'em  too  full,  seein'  as  they  don't  know  how  to  set 
about  their  work  nohow." 

"  Yes,  yes.  Well,  Sanders  is  very  busy  all  day  and  Jim 
has  a  wide  beat.  Neither  of  them  ever  find  time  to  go 
near  the  river.  It's  my  private  belief,  John,  that  that 
river  is  dreadfully  poached.  We've  next  to  no  wild  duck, 
you  know." 

"  We  never  did  have  none,  sir,"  interrupted  Guppy. 

"Just  what  I  say,"  agreed  his  master;  "we  never  had 
the  chance.  You  had  your  hands  pretty  full  when  you 
were  head-keeper,  hadn't  you?" 

"  I  weren't  one  what  'ud  ever  ha'  let  'em  get  empty," 
growled  Guppy. 

"Well,  I  was  thinking,  now  that  you  haven't  very  much 
to  do,  you  might  undertake  the  control  of  those  meadows 
down  there  by  the  river,  if  you  feel  up  to  it,  and  it's  not 
asking  too  much  of  you." 

"  Oh !  I  could  do  it,"  returned  John,  in  a  mollified  tone  ; 
"  I  could  do  it  right  enough  if  I  was  let." 

"  I  should  be  very  much  obliged  to  you,"  resumed  the 
Squire,  "  very  much  obliged  indeed.  All  that  part  of  the 
property  has  got  shamefully  neglected.  I  imagine  the 
people  think  they've  got  a  right-of-way." 

"  Very  like  they  do,"  agreed  John,  whose  countenance 
was  gradually  clearing  ;  "  but  I  can  soon  show  'em  whether 
they  have  or  not." 


KEEPER  GUPPY  85 

"  Just  so.  Well,  will  you  undertake  to  look  after  that 
part  of  the  estate  for  me  ?  It  will  be  a  great  relief  to  my 
mind.  Don't  overtire  yourself,  you  know  ;  but  any  day 
that  you  are  feeling  pretty  fit  you  might  stroll  round,  and 
just  keep  a  sharp  look-out." 

"  'E-es,  I  could  do  that,"  said  John,  after  considering  for 
a  moment ;  "  I  could  do  it  all  right,  Squire.  I  will  look 
into  the  matter." 

"That's  right.  Thank  you  very  much,  John.  I  shall 
feel  quite  satisfied  about  it  now." 

He  nodded,  and  went  away,  John  looking  after  him 
with  a  satisfied  expression. 

"  I  never  did  mind  obligin'  the  Squire,"  he  remarked 
to  his  wife,  "and  I'm  glad  to  do  en  a  bit  of  a  good 
turn  i'  my  ancient  years.  'Tis  true  what  he  do  say, 
that  there  bit  down  by  the  river  have  a-been  fearful 
neglected.  I  myself  could  never  make  time  to  go  down 
there,  and  't  ain't  very  likely  as  these  here  chaps  'ull  go 
out  of  their  way  to  look  round.  I'll  put  it  to  rights, 
though." 

"  I'm  sure  it's  very  good  o'  you,  John,"  said  Mrs.  Guppy, 
who  had  listened  to  the  foregoing  colloquy  with  a  some- 
what mystified  air.  "  I  shouldn't  ha'  thought  that  there 
was  anything  worth  lookin'  arter  down  there.  Why,  the 
town  boys  do  bathe  there  reg'lar  i'  the  summer." 

"They'll  not  bathe  there  any  more,"  returned  her  lord 
resolutely.  "  I'll  teach  Mr.  Sanders  a  lesson — I'll  lam  'em 
how  to  see  arter  a  place  as  it  did  ought  to  be  looked  arter ! 
Reach  me  down  that  gun,  woman  ! " 

He  sallied  forth  that  very  hour,  drawing  up  his  little, 


86  DORSET  DEAR 

bent  form  to  as  close  an  approach  to  straightness  as  he 
could  manage. 

His  first  care  on  reaching  his  destination  was  to  examine 
the  gates  that  gave  access  to  this  stretch  of  meadow-land. 
He  pursed  his  nether  lip  and  shook  his  head  disapprov- 
ingly at  their  shaky  condition,  making  a  mental  resolution 
to  repair  them  at  the  earliest  opportunity,  and  moreover 
to  see  that  they  were  provided  with  padlocks.  After 
diligently  hunting  in  the  neighbouring  wood,  he  discovered 
a  half-defaced  board,  which  had  at  one  time  borne  the 
legend,  "  Trespassers  will  be  prosecuted,"  and,  with  a  sigh 
of  satisfaction,  placed  it  in  a  more  prominent  position. 

His  joy  was  extreme  when,  late  in  the  afternoon,  he 
discovered  an  honest  labouring  man  in  the  act  of  climbing 
a  gate,  which,  owing  to  the  rickety  condition  of  its  hinges, 
could  not  be  opened  without  risk  of  falling  flat  upon  the 
ground. 

"  Where  be  goin'  to  ?  "  inquired  John,  sternly. 

"  Why,  jist  home-along,"  returned  the  other,  with  a  good- 
humoured  smile ;  "  'tis  a  bit  of  a  short  cut  this  way." 

"There's  to  be  no  more  short  cuts  here,"  cried  John, 
with  a  certain  almost  malignant  triumph.  "  These  here 
meadows  belongs  to  Squire.  They'm  his  private  pro- 
perty." 

The  man's  jaw  dropped.  "  That'll  be  summat  noo,"  he 
said  doubtfully,  but  still  good-humouredly. 

"  'Tis  noo  times  all  round,"  replied  Guppy,  with  an  odd 
contraction  of  the  face,  "  but  these  'ere  reg'lations  'ull  be 
carried  out  strict.  You  jist  turn  about,  my  bwoy." 

"  I  be  three  parts  there  now,"  protested  the  other. 


KEEPER  GUPPY  87 

"  Then  you'll  have  to  step  back  three  parts,  that's  all," 
responded  Guppy  unmoved. 

The  man  scratched  his  head,  stared,  and  finally  re- 
crossed  the  gate,  and  walked  away,  grumbling  to  himself, 
Guppy  looking  after  him  with  a  sense  of  well-nigh  for- 
gotten dignity.  He  had  vindicated  the  majesty  of  the 
law. 

All  hitherto  unconscious  trespassers  had  thenceforth  a 
bad  time  of  it  under  the  reign  of  the  new  river-keeper. 
Would-be  bathers,  small  boys  on  bird's-nesting  intent, 
tired  women  with  market-baskets,  labourers  on  their  way 
to  and  from  their  daily  work,  were  ruthlessly  turned  back 
by  old  Guppy,  whose  magisterial  air  carried  conviction 
with  it.  The  other  keepers,  laughing  perhaps  in  their 
sleeves,  let  him  pursue  his  tactics  unmolested,  and  the 
Squire  was  careful  to  congratulate  him  from  time  to  time 
on  the  success  of  his  labours.  John  Guppy's  greatest 
triumph  was,  perhaps,  when  he  actually  did  discover  a 
wild  duck's  nest  amid  the  sedges  of  the  now  tranquil 
river.  How  tenderly  he  watched  over  it ;  how  proudly 
he  noted  the  little  brood  of  downy  ducklings  when  they 
first  paddled  from  one  group  of  reeds  to  another  in  the 
wake  of  their  mother  ;  with  what  delight  he  imparted  his 
discovery  to  the  Squire,  and  with  what  supreme  joy  did 
he  invite  him  to  set  about  the  destruction  of  these  pre- 
cious charges  when  they  were  sufficiently  grown  !  Almost 
equal  rapture  was  his  when,  having  struggled  along  the 
avenue  with  a  brace  of  ducks  dangling  from  each  hand,  he 
encountered  the  head-keeper  in  the  shrubbery. 

"Those  are  fine  ones,"  remarked  Sanders,good-naturedly ; 


88  DORSET  DEAR 

he  was  a  good-hearted  fellow  in  the  main,  and  did  not 
grudge  the  old  man  his  small  successes. 

"  I  should  think  they  was,"  returned  Guppy,  swelling  with 
pride.  "  They  be  uncommon  fine  uns,  Maister  Sanders  ; 
they  be  the  only  wild  duck  what  was  ever  seen  on  this 
here  property.  I  be  glad  to  hear,"  he  added,  condescend- 
ingly, "  as  you've  done  pretty  well  \vi'  the  pheasants,  too. 
Squire  was  a-tellin'  me  about  the  good  season  ye  did 
have." 

"  Yes,"  rejoined  the  keeper,  with  a  twinkle  in  his  eye  ; 
"  they  didn't  turn  out  so  bad,  you  see,  Mr.  Guppy." 

"  I  be  very  glad  on  't,  I'm  sure,"  said  John,  still  con- 
descendingly ;  "  of  course  it  be  easy  to  rear  a  good  few 
pheasants  if  you  do  go  in  for  buyin'  eggs ;  it  bain't  so  very 
easy  to  get  wild  duck  to  take  to  a  place  where  they  never 
did  come  afore." 

"  No,  to  be  sure,"  agreed  Sanders  affably.  "  It  was  a 
wonderful  piece  of  luck,  that  was." 

"It  wasn't  luck,  Maister  Sanders,"  said  John  impres- 
sively, "  it  was  knowledge." 

And  he  walked  on,  with  conscious  pride  in  every  line 
of  face  and  figure,  leaving  his  successor  chuckling. 


THE  WORM  THAT  TURNED. 

"  WHERE  be  goin',  William  ? " 

"  Oh,  I  be  jest  steppin'  up  to  the  Pure  Drop." 

And  William  Faithfull  brought  back  his  abstracted  gaze 
from  the  horizon,  where  it  habitually  rested  when  it  was 
not  required  for  practical  purposes  in  the  exercise  of  his 
profession,  and  fixed  itself  somewhat  shamefacedly  on  his 
interlocutor. 

He  was  a  tall,  loose-limbed  man,  of  about  forty,  with  an 
expression  of  countenance  chronically  dismal,  except  at 
such  times  when  he  was  employed  in  some  particularly 
genial  task,  such  as  making  a  coffin,  or  repairing  the  church 
trestles,  when  his  neighbours  averred  that  he  became  quite 
lively,  and  even  whistled  as  he  worked. 

His  crony  now  returned  his  glance  with  a  jocular  one, 
and  slapped  his  thigh  ecstatically. 

"  Well,  I  never  seed  such  a  chap !  Faithfull  by  name 
and  faithful  by  natur' — ah,  sure  you  are.  Why,  'tis  nigh 
upon  twelve  year,  bain't  it,  since  ye  started  coortin'  Martha 
Jesty  ? " 

"  Somewhere  about  that,"  replied  William ;  and  his 
countenance,  already  ruddy  in  the  sunset  glow,  assumed  a 
still  deeper  tint. 

"Well,  I  never!"  returned  the  other  with  a  shout  of 

89 


90  DORSET  DEAR 

laughter.     "  She  be  gettin'  on  pretty  well,  now — I  d'  'low 
she'll  be  a  staid  woman  by  the  time  you  wed  her." 

William  shifted  uneasily  from  one  foot  to  the  other. 

"Well,"  he  said,  after  a  pause,  "  I  d'  'low  she  be  worth 
waitin'  for.  She  be  wonderful  clever,  Martha  be — an'  that 
sprack  !  No,  I  don't  regret  it — not  at  all  I  don't." 

"  Bain't  the  wold  man  anyways  comin'  round  ?  "  inquired 
his  friend  with  his  head  on  one  side. 

"No,"  returned  Faithfull  gloomily.  "Not  at  all.  But 
he  be  so  terr'ble  punished,  poor  wold  chap,  one  can't 
expect  rayson  off  he." 

"  Tis  the  rheumatics,  bain't  it  ? "  was  the  next  queiy  in 
a  commiserating  tone. 

"  'Tis  the  sky-attics,"  replied  the  carpenter,  not  without 
a  certain  pride  in  his  pseudo-father-in-law's  distinguished 
ailment.  "  There,  he  be  so  scraggled  as  anything — all 
doubled  up  by  times.  Martha  do  say  he  goes  twisty-like 
same  as  a  eel,  when  it  do  take  en  real  bad." 

"  Lard,  now  ! "  ejaculated  the  other. 

"  'E-es,"  said  William,  shaking  his  head — "  that's  how  it 
do  take  en.  So,  as  Martha  do  say,  ye  can't  expect  the 
onpossible.  '  If  my  father,'  says  she,  'be  so  scram-like  in 
his  out'ard  man,  how  can  ye  look  for  en  to  act  straight- 
forrard?  He've  a-set  his  mind  again'  the  notion  of  us 
gettin'  wed,  so  we  must  just  wait  till  he  be  underground. 
And  then,'  says  she,  '  I'll  not  keep  'ee  waitin'  a  minute 
longer.' " 

"Well,  that's  handsome,"  agreed  the  friend,  "but  I'm 
afeard,  William,  that  there  complaint  bain't  like  to  carry 
en  off  very  soon — no,  not  so  very  soon.  Nay,  I've  a- 


THE  WORM  THAT  TURNED  91 

knowed  folks  keep  on  a-livin'  in  a  way  that  'ud  surprise 
ye,  as  was  fair  bent  in  two  wi'  pains  in  all  their  j'ints.  I 
reckon  you'll  very  like  go  first  yerself,  William." 

After  a  pause  of  deep  depression  the  carpenter's  face 
lighted  up. 

"The  sky-attics,  d'ye  see,  Tom,"  he  explained  con- 
descendingly— "  the  sky-attics  is  a  new-fayshioned  ailment, 
an'  a  deal  dangerouser  nor  the  wold  rheumatiz  an'  new- 
ralgy  and  sich.  Why,  when  I  did  mention  to  Parson 
t'other  day  about  wold  Jesty's  sky-attics  he  did  laugh. 
'  Sky-attics,'  says  he.  '  Then  he'll  be  like  to  go  up'ards  afore 
very  long,'  says  he.  Well,  so  long,  Tom  ;  I  must  be  steppin' 
up-along  now." 

"  Ye'll  find  the  wold  fellow  a  bit  tilty,"  remarked  Tom ; 
"whether  them  there  'attics  was  troublin'  en  or  not  I  can't 
say,  but  he  was  a-shoutin'  an'  a  bally-raggin'  o'  that  poor 
faymale  while  I  was  drinkin'  my  drap  o'  beer  jist  now,  till 
I  wonder  she  wasn't  dathered." 

William's  recent  elation  disappeared  ;  he  vouchsafed  no 
comment  on  the  unwelcome  news,  however,  but  with  a 
sidelong  nod  at  his  crony,  shambled  away,  swinging  his 
long  limbs  as  though  eveiy  joint  of  them  was  loose. 

The  Pure  Drop  was  situated  a  stone's  throw  from  the 
village,  and  stood  at  the  junction  of  four  cross-roads  ;  a 
most  excellent  position,  which  enabled  it  to  waylay,  as  it 
were,  not  only  the  inhabitants  of  the  hamlet  as  they  set 
forth  for  or  returned  from  their  day's  vocations,  but  to 
capture  most  of  the  travellers  who  journeyed  that  way — 
cyclists  galore,  wagoners,  dusty  pedestrians.  It  must  be 
owned  that  the  aspect  of  the  little  place  was  inviting 


9i  DORSET  DEAR 

enough  to  tempt  even  a  teetotaller ;  the  low  red-brick 
house  overgrown  with  creepers,  the  mullioned  windows 
winking  brightly  in  the  sun  in  summer,  and  in  winter 
letting  streams  of  ruddy  firelight  flow  forth.  It  was  so 
clean  and  airy,  so  cosy  and  trim,  that  those  who  went 
thither  for  the  first  time  vowed  they  would  return  again, 
and  old  customers  nodded  knowingly,  and  declared  that 
the  place  had  not  its  like  in  the  country.  The  liquor  was 
good,  while  prudent  folk  who  called  for  tea  might  have 
it,  and  a  crusty  home-baked  loaf  into  the  bargain,  and 
a  roll  of  fresh  butter  of  Martha's  making. 

Then  Martha  herself — though  she  was  no  longer  in  the 
first  bloom  of  youth,  she  was  a  tidy,  clean-skinned,  pleasant- 
looking  little  body ;  and  if  her  eye  was  sharp  and  her 
tongue  ready,  she  was  none  the  less  popular  on  these 
accounts  ;  every  one  got  hauled  over  the  coals  from  time  to 
time,  and  when  it  was  not  your  turn  it  was  pleasant  enough 
to  see  other  folks  made  to  look  foolish. 

Miss  Jesty  was  standing  in  the  open  doorway  when  her 
lover  came  up,  and  immediately  made  a  warning  sign  to 
him. 

"  Ye  mustn't  come  in  to-night,  William.  Father — there  ! 
he's  something  awful  this  evenin',  an'  he've  a-been  on  the 
look-out  for  ye,  so  to  speak,  ever  since  dinner-time.  When- 
ever the  door  do  go, '  There,'  he'll  cry,  '  is  that  that  good- 
for-nothin'  William  Faithfull  ? '  Or  if  there's  a  knock, 
'  Tis  that  sammy  o'  thine,  for  sure,'  he'll  say." 

"Oh,  an'  does  he?"  returned  poor  William,  with  a 
deeper  expression  of  melancholy. 

Martha  nodded  portentously. 


THE  WORM  THAT  TURNED  93 

"  Ye  mustn't  come  in  to-day,"  she  said  with  decision  ; 
"  no,  not  even  for  a  minute.  Father,  he  did  say  to  I  jist 
now,  as  whatever  happened  he  wouldn't  have  no  cwortin' 
here.  '  If  ye  can  have  the  heart  to  think  about  cwortin' 
when  I'm  so  bad  as  I  be,'  says  he,  '  I'll  take  an'  alter  my 
will.'  So  there's  nothin'  for  it  but  for  you  to  turn  about 
an'  go  home  again." 

"  I  weren't  so  much  thinkin'  o'  cwortin'  this  evenin', 
Martha,"  said  the  swain  very  meekly.  "  I  wer'  lookin'  for 
a  drap  o'  beer — I  be  terr'ble  dry." 

Martha  hesitated  for  a  moment,  and  in  this  interval  a 
kind  of  bellow  sounded  from  the  interior  of  the  house. 

"  That's  him,"  she  cried  in  terror.  "  No,  William,  ye 
can't  have  no  beer  to-night.  I  dursen't  stay  another 
minute.  Go  home-along,  do,  an1  if  ye  be  so  thirsty  as 
that  comes  to,  can't  ye  get  a  bottle  o'  '  pop '  off  Mrs. 
Andrews  ? " 

William  gazed  at  her  blankly,  but  before  he  could  pro- 
test his  charmer  had  disappeared  within  the  house,  and  he 
was  forced  very  dolefully  to  retrace  his  steps.  He  did 
indeed  purchase  the  bottle  of  "  pop,"  but  found  it  by  no 
means  exhilarating  ;  in  fact,  as  he  laid  his  head  on  the 
pillow  that  night  he  was  tempted  to  think  he  might  pay 
too  high  a  price  even  for  the  hope  of  becoming  one 
day  Martha's  husband. 

When  on  the  following  Sunday  evening,  however,  he 
walked  in  the  shady  lane  hand  in  hand  with  his  sweet- 
heart, he  forgot  how  irksome  was  this  time  of  trial,  and 
listened  with  the  melancholy  satisfaction  which  was  his 
nearest  approach  to  cheerfulness  (on  ordinary  occasions) 


94  DORSET  DEAR 

to  the  glowing  picture  with  which  she  depicted  the  reward 
earned  by  his  constancy. 

"  I  do  r'alely  think  as  poor  father  be  a-breakin'  up,"  she 
remarked  consolingly.  "When  winter  comes  I  reckon 
he'll  not  be  able  to  hold  out.  Well,"  she  added  piously, 
"  'tis  what  comes  to  us  all,  soon  or  late,  an'  I'm  sure  he  be 
well  prepared,  for  I  don't  think  he've  a-had  a  day's  health 
this  twenty  year.  'Twill  be  a  mercy  when  he  do  go,  poor 
wold  man.  An'  the  winter  'ud  be  a  very  nice  time  for  us 
to  get  married,  William  ;  'twould  suit  us  very  well,  wouldn't 
it?" 

"  Ah,  sure,"  said  William,  with  a  slow  smile. 

"We  shouldn't  be  so  busy  then,  d'ye  see,"  resumed 
Martha.  "  The  harvestin'  'ud  be  done  an'  the  potato- 
gettin' ;  an'  there  wouldn't  be  so  many  by -cyclists — there's 
not  so  much  goin'  backwards  an'  forrards  in  winter-time. 
We  shouldn't  be  at  much  loss  if  we  was  to  take  a  holiday." 

"  Ah,"  said  William,  with  mournful  rapture,  "  you  was 
thinkin'  of  us  takin'  a  holiday,  was  ye,  Martha?" 

"  I  thought  we  mid  go  to  London,"  cried  Miss  Jesty 
triumphantly.  "  I  have  always  longed  to  go  to  London 
an'  see  the  sights  there,  an'  go  to  the  theayters.  There ! 
Susan  Inkpen  as  wed  Miller  Dewey  did  go  up  to  London 
for  her  honeymoon." 

"  For  her  what  ? "  interrupted  Faithfull. 

"  For  her  honeymoon — her  weddin'  journey — the  jaunt 
what  folks  do  take  when  they  gets  wed." 

"  Oh,  to  be  sure,"  said  the  carpenter.  "  An'  you  an'  me 
be  to  go  to  London  for  our  honeymoon,  be  we  ?  " 

"  'E-es,"  cried  Martha  with  a  chuckle.     "  We'll  have  a 


THE  WORM  THAT  TURNED  95 

rale  week's  pleasuring  you  an'  me.  If  'tis  winter-time — 
as  most  like  'twill  be,  on  account  o'  poor  father's  sky-attics, 
you  know — the  pantomines  'ull  be  goin'  on.  Susan  Dewey 
did  go,  an'  she  said  they  was  the  wonderfullest  things,  wi' 
fairies  an'  mermaids,  an'  sich-like,  an'  Glown  an'  Pantaloon 
a-knockin'  of  each  other  about.  There,  she  an'  her  hus- 
band did  fair  split  their  sides  wi'  laughin'." 

William  appeared  to  survey  this  prospect  stolidly,  and 
made  no  comment,  and  Miss  Jesty  continued  eagerly : — 

"  Then  there'd  be  the  Waxworks,  an'  the  Zoo,  where 
all  the  wild  beasts  is  kept ;  an'  we'd  go  an'  see  the  Tower 
o'  London,  where  all  the  king's  jools  an'  suits  of  armour  is 
set  out,  an'  wre'd  go  to  Westminster  Abbey " 

"  What's  that  ?  "  inquired  Mr.  Faithfull  dubiously. 

Martha  was  taken  a-back  for  a  moment. 

"  Susan  went  to  see  it,"  said  she  hesitatingly,  "  so  I 
s'pose  'tis  worth  lookin'  at.  'Tis  a  wold  ancient  church." 

"  A  wold  church  ? "  repeated  William,  shaking  his  head. 
"Id'  'low  I  shouldn't  care  so  much  to  see  that.  I'd  sooner 
wait  till  'twas  done  up  fresh-like.  I  never  cared  at  all  for 
goin'  into  our  church  till  the  Rector  had  it  cleaned  and 
painted -up  so  good  as  new.  I  think  't  'ud  be  a  foolish 
kind  o'  thing  to  go  trapesin'  off  to  yon — what-d'-ye-call-it — 
Abbey  till  they  get  it  repaired." 

"  Maybe  not,"  agreed  Martha  cheerfully ;  "  there's 
plenty  more  to  be  seen  wi'out  that.  Well,  I  hope  the 
Lcrd  'ull  spare  father  so  long  as  it  be  good  for  en,  poor 
dear  man,  but  if  he  was  to  be  took,  I  hope  as  it  may  be 
in  the  winter,  William." 

William,  who  had  been  trailing  beside  her  arm-in-crook, 


96  DORSET  DEAR 

suddenly  stopped  short  and  faced  her  with  a  determined 
air. 

"  Whether  he  do  go  in  winter  or  whether  he  do  go  in 
summer,  Martha,"  said  he,  "you  an'  me  must  be  called 
home  so  soon  as  he  be  laid  under  ground,  mind  that." 

And  having  come  to  the  turn  in  the  lane  where  they 
usually  parted,  William  went  his  way,  leaving  Martha 
somewhat  in  doubt  whether  to  be  pleased  at  this  proof  of 
ardour  or  indignant  at  the  sudden  display  of  spirit. 

A  wilful  woman  is  proverbially  supposed  to  have  her 
way,  yet  it  sometimes  happens  that,  even  when  she  pro- 
poses, Heaven  disposes  events  otherwise  than  she  would 
have  had  them.  Thus,  though  Martha  Jesty  had  made 
arrangements  for  her  father  to  depart  this  life  in  the  winter — 
a  time  when  business  should  be  conveniently  slack — that 
worthy  old  gentleman  was  removed  from  this  earthly 
sphere  in  the  very  height  of  summer,  when  the  harvest 
was  in  full  swing,  and  more  than  an  ordinary  number  of 
tourists  halted  daily  for  refreshment  at  the  Pure  Drop. 

Tidings  of  this  melancholy  event  were  imparted  to 
William  by  a  group  who  entered  his  yard  on  the  morning 
of  the  occurrence,  each  eager  to  be  the  first  to  tell  the  news. 
That  old  Mr.  Jesty  was  gone  was  an  incontrovertible  fact, 
but  none  of  the  newsmongers  could  agree  as  to  the  precise 
ailment  which  had  carried  him  off.  He  had  had  a  bit  of  a 
cold  for  a  day  or  two,  but  while  some  said  it  had  turned  to 
"  browntitus,"  others  were  sure  it  was  "  poomonia,"  and 
one  shrill-voiced  old  lady  delivered  it  as  her  opinion  that 
nothing  short  of  an  "  apple-complex "  could  have  carried 
him  off  that  sudden. 


THE  WORM  THAT  TURNED  97 

Beyond  sundry  "  ohs  "  and  "  ahs  "  and  grunts  indicative 
of  surprise  and  sympathy,  William  made  no  remark,  though 
when  one  facetious  bystander  observed  that  it  would  be  his 
turn  next — a  somewhat  obscure  phrase,  which  might  be 
interpreted  in  a  variety  of  ways — he  grinned  appreciatively. 

No  sooner  had  the  gossips  departed,  however,  than  he 
went  indoors  and  assumed  his  coat,  and  immediately  betook 
himself,  not  to  the  Pure  Drop,  but  to  the  Rectory. 

"The  Reverend,"  as  his  parishioners  frequently  called 
him,  was  sitting  in  his  study,  tranquilly  reading  his  Times, 
when  William  Faithfull  was  ushered  in. 

"  You'll  have  heard  the  noos,  sir,"  he  began  abruptly ; 
"  old  Abel  Jesty  up  to  the  Pure  Drop,  he's  gone  at  last." 

"  Oh  ! "  said  the  Rector,  looking  rather  startled  ;  "  that's 
sudden,  isn't  it  ?  " 

"  'E-es,"  said  William,  with  a  wooden  face  ;  "  sudden  but 
not  unpre-pared.  Martha  has  been  a-lookin'  for  en  to  go 
this  ten  year." 

"Oh  ! "  said  the  Rector  again,  this  time  a  little  uncertainly. 

"  'E-es,"  resumed  William  ;  "  I  thought  I'd  call  an'  tell 
ye,  so  as  ye  need  lose  no  time  in  settling  things." 

"  About  the  funeral,  I  suppose  you  mean  ? "  put  in  the 
clergyman  as  he  paused. 

"  No,"  said  William,  who  was  gazing  not  only  over  the 
Rector's  head,  but  apparently  through  the  wall  at  some 
distant  sky-line ;  "  about  the  weddin' — mine  an'  Martha's. 
Ye  mid  call  us  over  on  Sunday." 

"  Really,  William,  I  think  that  is  too  sudden,"  said  the 
Rector ;  "  why,  the  poor  old  man  won't  have  been  dead 
a  week ! " 

7 


98  DORSET  DEAR 

"  He  be  so  dead  as  ever  he'll  be,"  returned  William,  still 
gazing  impenetrably  at  that  far  point  in  an  imaginary 
horizon.  "  Martha  an'  I  have  a-made  it  up  years  ago, 
an'  settled  as  she'd  not  keep  me  waitin'  no  longer  after 
her  father  was  took.  I'll  thank  ye  to  call  us  home,  sir." 

And  with  that  he  scraped  a  leg  and  pulled  his  forelock 
and  withdrew,  leaving  the  Rector,  half-scandalised,  half- 
amused,  murmuring  to  himself  as  the  door  closed  some- 
thing about  "  funeral  baked-meats,"  which  William  set 
down  as  a  "bit  o'  voolishness ". 

He  found  Martha  plunged  in  the  most  praiseworthy 
grief,  thereby  much  edifying  the  neighbours  who  had 
gathered  together  to  condole  with  her ;  but  William,  who 
could  only  see  the  other  aspect  of  the  affair,  immediately 
beckoned  her  on  one  side  and  informed  her  of  the  step  he 
had  taken. 

"Lard!"  cried  she,  genuinely  taken  aback,  "whatever 
made  ye  do  that?  Why,  father  'ull  only  be  buried  o' 
Thursday.  You  shouldn't  ha'  done  it  wi'out  axin'  me. 
'Tis  too  sudden.  The  folks  'ull  say  we've  no  decency." 

"  Let  'em  say  what  they  like,"  returned  William  firmly. 
"  I'll  keep  to  my  'greement,  an'  I  expect  you  to  do  the 
same.  'Twas  drawed  out  ten  year  ago  an'  more.  I've 
stuck  to  my  word,  an'  you  must  stick  to  your'n." 

"  'Twill  be  a  very  onconvenient  time,"  said  Martha  re- 
flectively. "  Three-week  come  Monday  —  the  middle  of 
August  that'll  be,  jist  when  we  do  take  more  money  nor 
any  other  month  in  the  year." 

William  cracked  his  finger  joints  one  after  another  with 
great  decision,  but  made  no  verbal  reply. 


THE  WORM  THAT  TURNED 


99 


"  There,  I've  a-been  lookin'  forward  to  our  honeymoon 
all  these  years,"  complained  Martha,  fresh  tears  rushing  to 
her  eyes ;  "  it'll  be  a  shame,  I  declare,  if  we  have  to  give 
it  up !  I've  never  took  a  holiday,  no,  not  since  mother  died. 
I  don't  see  how  we  can  get  away  then,  William." 

"  I  don't  care  so  much  about  gettin'  away,"  said  Faithfull 
resolutely.  "  Tis  the  weddin'  I  do  want.  I'll  not  have  no 
shilly-shally.  I've  a-told  ye  hundreds  of  times  as  I  wouldn't 
wait  a  day  longer  nor  I  could  help — an'  I  won't  wait. 
You'd  best  make  up  your  mihcl  to  it." 

"  Why,  whatever's  come  to  ye  ? "  cried  Martha,  really 
angry.  "  'Tis  downright  indecent  to  go  upsettin'  me  like 
this  in  the  midst  o'  my  trouble.  'Tisn't  for  you  to  be 
namin'  the  day  either.  Jist  you  keep  a  civil  tongue  in  your 
head,  William,  an'  have  a  bit  o'  patience — maybe  about 
Michaelmas " 

"  Michaelmas ! "  ejaculated  the  carpenter,  catching  up 
his  hat  and  fixing  it  firmly  on  his  head.  "  I'll  tell  you 
summat,  Martha  —  I'm  goin'  to  get  married  o'  Monday 
three- week,  whatever  you  mid  be.  If  ye  can't  make  up 
your  mind  to  it  there's  them  as  will.  I'll  go  warrant  my 
cousin  Sabina,  over  to  Sturminster,  'ud  have  me  if  I  was 
to  ax  her.  Her  an'  me  was  always  very  thick.  Gully, 
that's  her  husband,  left  her  very  comfortable,  an'  she  has 
but  the  one  little  maid." 

Martha  thereupon  came  round  in  a  twinkling,  and  fling- 
ing herself  into  his  arms,  promised  to  agree  to  everything 
he  wished.  A  tender  scene  ensued,  at  the  end  of  which 
William  suggested  that  he  had  better  go  upstairs  to 
measure  the  poor  old  man  for  his  coffin. 

7* 


ioo  DORSET  DEAR 

When  he  came  down  again  he  found  Martha  in  the 
midst  of  her  cronies,  to  whom  she  had  imparted,  with  a 
kind  of  regretful  elation,  the  extreme  pressure  which 
William  had  brought  to  bear  upon  her  with  regard  to 
their  approaching  nuptials,  all  her  hearers  being  much  im- 
pressed and  edified  by  the  recital. 

She  turned  to  her  lover  as  he  was  about  to  leave  the 
house  : — 

"  Ye'll  not  be  chargin'  me  nothin',  I  shouldn't  think,"  she 
remarked  with  mournful  archness. 

William,  who  had  not  hitherto  considered  the  matter, 
hesitated  for  a  moment,  and  then  observed  handsomely  : — 

"  Nothin'  but  the  price  of  the  wood,  my  dear.  You 
shall  have  the  labour  free." 

"  Lard  bless  the  man  !  "  cried  she,  with  some  irritation. 
"  I  believe  he's  goin'  to  make  out  a  bill  for  it.  Why,  don't 
ye  see,  William,  if  we're  to  be  man  an'  wife  in  three  week, 
'twill  be  but  takin'  the  money  out  o'  one  pocket  to  put  it  in 
the  other  ? " 

"  And  that's  true,"  agreed  the  friends  in  chorus. 

After  a  pause,  during  which  the  carpenter  had  thoroughly 
mastered  the  situation,  he  turned  to  his  intended,  and, 
with  a  sudden  burst  of  generosity,  informed  her  that  he 
would  make  her  a  present  of  the  whole  thing. 

"  I  haven't  gied  you  so  very  much  afore  now,"  said  he, 
"  but  I'll  make  you  a  present  of  this,  my  dear,  an'  wel- 
come." 

And  he  walked  away,  while  Martha,  looking  after  him 
through  her  tears,  observed  that  there  wasn't  a  better- 
natured  man  in  the  whole  of  England. 


THE  WORM  THAT  TURNED       101 

William,  indeed,  was  in  such  good  humour  at  the  ap- 
proaching fruition  of  his  hopes  that  Martha  found  him 
more  amenable  than  ever  to  her  views. 

Therefore,  when,  a  day  or  two  after  the  funeral,  she 
encountered  him  on  his  way  to  the  tailor's,  where  he  in- 
tended, as  he  informed  her,  to  order  his  wedding-suit,  she 
was  emboldened  to  lay  her  hand  on  his  arm  and  beseech 
him  tearfully  to  be  married,  like  her,  in  "  deep  ". 

"  Twill  show  proper  feelin',"  said  she.  "  All  the  neigh- 
bours 'ull  know  that  you  are  showin"  respect  to  poor  father ; 
an'  since  ye'll  be  jist  comin'  into  the  family,  'twill  be  but 
decent  as  you  should  wear  black  for  him  what's  gone." 

William,  who  had  been  dreaming  of  a  certain  imposing 
stripe  which  had  dazzled  him,  days  before,  in  the  tailor's 
window,  among  the  pile  labelled  "  Elegant  Trouserings," 
now  dismissed  with  a  sigh  the  alluring  vision,  and  promised 
to  appear  in  mourning  as  requested. 

But  when  later  on  Martha  unfolded  to  him  another 
plan,  he  gave  in  his  adherence  to  it  with  some  reluctance. 
It  was  no  less  a  proposition  than  that  they  should  take 
their  honeymoon  by  turns. 

"You  see,"  she  explained,  "it  just  falls  out  that  the 
weddin's  the  very  week  o'  the  Branston  show — the  house 
'ull  be  full  from  morn  till  night  for  three  days  or  more ;  an' 
we  turn  over  enough  that  week  to  pay  the  year's  rent, 
very  near.  'Twouldn't  do  for  us  both  to  be  away." 

William  gazed  at  her  with  a  more  rueful  face  than  she 
had  ever  yet  beheld  in  him. 

"  Dear  now !  don't  you  take  on,"  urged  Martha.  "  I 
thought,  d'ye  see,  I'd  just  pop  up  to  London  for  a  few 


loa  DORSET  DEAR 

days  by  myself,  an'  you  can  stop  an'  mind  the  house,  an' 
maybe  some  time  in  the  winter  we  mid  both  on  us  take  a 
few  days  together  somewhere." 

William  gazed  at  her  reproachfully. 

"  Ye  didn't  ought  to  want  to  go  a-pleasurin'  wi'out  I," 
said  he. 

"  No  more  I  would,  my  dear,"  returned  his  future  better- 
half,  "  if  it  could  be  helped.  But  'twas  yourself  as  named 
the  day,  an'  if  ye  won't  have  it  put  off " 

The  carpenter,  with  a  vigorous  shake  of  the  head,  inti- 
mated that  he  certainly  would  not  have  it  put  off. 

"Well,  then,"  summed  up  Martha  triumphantly,  "ye 
must  agree  to  let  me  have  a  bit  o'  honeymoon.  'Tis  what 
every  bride  expects,  an'  'tis  the  one  thought  what  have 
kept  my  heart  up  all  these  years.  I've  always  promised 
myself  this  holiday  afore  I  settled  down  to  wedded  life." 

William  stared  at  her  gloomily,  but  made  no  further 
opposition ;  and  she  informed  him  in  a  cheerful  tone  that 
he  need  not  fear  her  staying  away  too  long. 

"  We'll  have  the  weddin'  o'  Monday  mornin',"  said  she, 
"quite  private-like.  The  neighbours  all  know  we  can't 
have  a  great  set-out  here,  on  account  o'  poor  father.  An' 
you  can  carry  my  bag  to  the  station  directly  we  leave 
church,  an'  I'll  be  back  again  Saturday  night,  so  as  we  can 
go  to  church  together  Sunday  mornin'.  Will  that  do  ye  ? " 

"'Twill  have  to  do  me,  I  s'pose,"  returned  William, 
still  with  profound  melancholy. 

"  'Tis  by  your  own  wish,  ye  know,"  said  the  bride ;  "  if 
you  hadn't  held  out  for  us  to  be  married  all  in  such  a 
hurry,  I'm  sure  I  should  have  been  glad  for  us  to  take  our 


THE  WORM  THAT  TURNED       103 

honeymoon  together,  my  dear.     But  ye  can't  have  every- 
thin'  in  this  world." 

"  No,"  agreed  Faithfull,  with  a  groan ;  "  no,  that  ye 
can't.  Twould  ha'  been  more  nat'ral-like  to  go  on  our 
honeymoon  together ;  but  what  must  be,  must  be." 

On  the  Monday  morning  the  much-discussed  wedding 
took  place ;  bride  and  bridegroom  were  alike  clad  in  new 
and  glossy  black,  Martha's  blushing  countenance  being 
scarcely  visible  beneath  her  crape  "  fall  ". 

The  villagers  were  all  much  impressed  ;  there  is  nothing 
indeed  that  the  rustic  rnind  so  thoroughly  appreciates  as 
the  panoply  of  woe,  and  to  find  this  mourning  ceremonial 
united  with  marriage  pomp  was  felt  to  be  a  rare  privilege, 
and,  as  such,  productive  of  sincere  admiration. 

When  the  wedded  pair  left  church,  their  friends  and 
neighbours  hastened  to  offer  congratulations,  attuned  to 
a  becoming  note  of  dismalness,  which  intimated  that  con- 
dolence lay  behind  ;  and  it  was  a  rude  shock  for  all  when 
William  was  suddenly  hailed  in  a  tone  of  most  discordant 
cheerfulness.  A  tall,  black-eyed  woman  had  suddenly 
rushed  forward  and  seized  him  by  the  hand. 

"  There,  now !  So  I  wasn't  in  time  after  all !  I  made 
sure  I'd  get  here  soon  enough  to  see  the  weddin'.  I  did 
always  say  I'd  come  to  your  weddin',  didn't  I,  William? 
I  thought  it  very  unkind  of  ye  not  to  ax  me." 

"  'Twas  very  private-like,  d'ye  see,  Sabina,"  said  William, 
who  had  been  energetically  pumping  her  hand  up  and 
down.  "  Martha,  here — I  mean  Miss  Jesty,  no,  I  mean 
Mrs.  Faithfull — she  did  want  it  private,  along  of  her  father 
being  dead." 


104  DORSET  DEAR 

"Have  ye  been  a-buryin'  of  en  to-day?"  interrupted 
the  newcomer  with  an  awe-struck  glance  at  his  sable  garb. 
"  No,  no — of  course  not.  But  why  did  ye  go  for  to  get 
married  in  deep  ?  " 

"  My  'usband,"  said  Martha  repressively,  "  thought  it 
but  right  to  show  respect  to  them  that's  gone,  Mrs.  Gully 
— I  think  ye  said  your  cousin's  name  was  Gully,  William ; 
I  s'pose  this  is  your  cousin  ?  " 

"  'E-es,  to  be  sure,"  agreed  the  owner  of  that  name, 
cheerfully.  "  Half-cousin,  if  ye  like  it  better — our  mothers 
was  two  brothers'  daughters." 

"  Indeed,"  said  Martha  stiffly.  "  I  must  wish  'ee  good- 
day  now,  for  William  an'  me  be  in  a  hurry  to  catch 
train." 

Mrs.  Gully's  jaw  dropped,  but  the  carpenter,  after 
hastily  explaining  that  they  weren't  having  any  party 
along  of  the  mourning,  invited  her  to  come  home  and 
take  a  bite  o'  summat  with  him  and  his  wife  before  they 
went  to  the  station. 

A  frown  from  Martha  intimated  that  she  considered 
this  hospitality  ill-timed,  but  William  stuck  to  his  point, 
and  they  all  three  turned  their  steps  together  towards  the 
Pure  Drop. 

"  I  think  I'll  hurry  on  an'  change  my  dress,"  remarked 
Martha,  after  stalking  on  for  some  moments  in  silence. 

She  was  not  going  to  travel  in  her  best  black  and  get 
the  crape  all  messed  about  with  dust. 

"  Don't  mind  me,  William,  my  dear,"  said  Sabina,  when 
the  bride  had  left  them.  "If  you're  wanting  to  change 
your  deep,  ye'd  best  hurry  on,  too,  maybe." 


THE  WORM  THAT  TURNED       105 

"  I've  no  need  to  change  my  suit,"  returned  William 
sorrowfully.  "  I  hain't  a-goin'  on  the  honeymoon." 

"  What !  "  cried  the  widow,  in  astonishment.  "  She's 
never  goin'  to  leave  ye  on  your  weddin'  day?  " 

"She  be,"  said  Mr.  Faithfull  slowly.  "  It  do  seem  a 
bit  hard,  but  we  couldn't  both  on  us  leave  the  house,  an' 
she  haven't  a-had  a  holiday  for  twenty  year.  Ye  see,  it 
fell  out  this  way — " 

And  he  proceeded  to  explain  the  circumstances,  al- 
ready related,  on  which  Mrs.  Gully  animadverted  with 
much  warmth. 

They  were  still  discussing  the  matter  when  Martha 
rejoined  them  in  the  private  room  of  the  Pure  Drop, 
where  a  slight  refection  had  been  set  forth. 

This  was  partaken  of  hastily,  and  for  the  most  part  in 
silence,  and  at  its  conclusion  Mrs.  Faithfull  jumped  up 
and  took  a  ceremonious  farewell  of  her  new  cousin.  William 
shouldered  his  wife's  bag  and  set  forth  beside  her.  Martha 
beguiled  the  walk  to  the  station  by  a  variety  of  injunctions, 
all  of  which  the  new  landlord  of  the  Pure  Drop  pro- 
mised to  heed  and  obey.  It  was  not  until  she  had  actually 
taken  her  seat  in  the  railway  carriage  that  she  found  time 
for  sentiment,  and  then,  embracing  her  husband,  she  ex- 
pressed the  affectionate  hope  that  he  would  not  be  lonely 
during  her  absence. 

William  clambered  out  of  the  compartment  and  carefully 
closed  the  door  before  he  answered  : — 

"Well,  I  shan't  be  altogether  that  lonely.  Sabina — 
she  be  a-comin'  to  keep  I  company  till  ye  come  back." 

"  Never !  "  cried  Mrs.  Faithfull,  thrusting  a  scared  face 


io6  DORSET  DEAR 

out  of  the  window.  "  You  don't  mean  to  say  ye  took  on 
yerself  to  ax  her  to  stop  in  my  house  ?  " 

The  whistle  sounded  at  this  juncture,  but  William 
walked  beside  the  train  as  it  slowly  moved  off. 

"  I  didn't  ax  her.  'Twas  she  herself  as  did  say,  when 
she  heerd  you  were  a-goin'  for  to  leave  I  all  by  mysel', 
says  she,  'I'll  tell  'ee  what,  WilPum ;  I'll  take  a  holiday, 

too,  an' '"     A  loud  and  prolonged  shriek  from  the 

engine  drowned  the  remainder  of  the  sentence,  and  the 
train  steamed  away,  the  last  sign  of  the  new-made  bride 
being  the  agitating  waving  of  a  protesting  hand  from  the 
carriage  window. 

The  carpenter  was  smoking  a  ruminative  pipe,  about  four 
o'clock  on  that  same  afternoon,  in  the  doorway  of  the  snug 
little  hostelry  of  which  he  now  found  himself  master,  when 
he  was  suddenly  hailed  by  a  distracted  voice  from  the  road. 
"William  !  for  the  Lard's  sake,  William,  do  'ee  come  and 
ketch  hold  of  this  here  bag ! " 

William  removed  his  pipe,  stared,  and  then  wedging  the 
stem  firmly  in  the  corner  of  his  mouth,  rushed  down  the 
path  and  up  the  roadway. 

"  Bless  me,  Martha,  be  ye  corned  back  again  ?  Tired  o' 
London  a'ready?" 

"  No,  my  dear,  I  didn't  ever  get  so  far  as  London,"  cried 
Martha,  thrusting  the  bag  into  his  hand,  and  throwing  her- 
self in  a  heated  and  exhausted  condition  upon  his  neck. 
"  I  didn't  go  no  further  than  Templecombe.  There,  I'd 
no  sooner  started  nor  I  did  feel  all  to  once  that  I  couldn't 
a-bear  to  leave  'ee.  I  fair  busted  out  a-cryin'  in  the  train." 
"  Did  ye  ? "  said  Faithfull,  much  gratified. 


THE  WORM  THAT  TURNED       107 

"  I  did  indeed,"  resumed  his  wife.  " '  Oh,'  says  I,  '  how 
could  I  ever  treat  en  so  unfair,'  says  I,  '  arter  all  them  years 
as  him  an'  me  was  a-walkin'  ?  Oh,'  says  I,  '  when  I  think 
of  his  melancholy  face,  an'  this  his  weddin'  day  an'  all.'  So 
I  nips  out  at/Templecombe,  an'  gets  another  ticket,  an' 
pops  into  the  train  as  were  just  startin'  Branston  way — an' 
here  I  be." 

"Well,  an'  I  be  pure  glad  to  see  ye,"  cried  William 
heartily. 

They  had  by  this  time  Breached  the  house,  and  Mrs. 
Faithfull,  still  breathless  with  fatigue  and  agitation,  stared 
anxiously  about. 

"  Where  is  she  ?  "  she  inquired  in  a  whisper. 
"  Who  ?  "  said  William,  setting  down  the  bag. 
"  Why,  your  Cousin  Sabina  ! " 

"  Oh,  her ! "  said  William,  with  something  like  a  twinkle 
in  his  usually  lack-lustre  eye ;  "  she  be  gone  home-along  to 
fetch  her  things  an'  lock  up  her  house.  She  says  she'll 
come  back  to-morrow  mornin'  first  thing." 

"Well,  but  we  don't  want  her  now,  do  we?"  cried 
Martha,  trembling  with  eagerness.  "  I  was  thinkin'  maybe 
after  all,  ye'd  fancy  a  bit  of  a  holiday,  William.  Ye  might 
drop  her  a  bit  of  a  line  an'  say  ye  was  goin'  to  take  the 
first  honeymoon  yerself.  I  fancy  ye'd  like  London  very 
well,  William.  You  should  have  the  first  turn,  by  right, 
the  man  bein'  master ;  an'  I  mid  be  able  to  run  up  for  a 
couple  o'  days  at  the  end  o'  the  week.  Here's  my  ticket, 
d'ye  see;  you  could  catch  the  last  train,  you  know,  an' 
then,  as  I  tell  'ee,  I'd  come  an'  j'ine  ye." 

"  That  won't  do,"  said  William  firmly  ;  "  nay,  'twon't  do." 


io8  DORSET  DEAR 

"  Why  not  ? "  gasped  Martha. 

"  Ye  may  pop  that  ticket  in  the  fire,"  said  William, 
speaking  slowly,  and  suffering  his  countenance  to  relax 
gradually.  "'Tain't  no  manner  of  use  to  I.  I — be — 
a-goin' — for  to  stop — an'  keep — my — honeymoon — here — 
along  of  'ee." 


OLF  AND  THE  LITTLE  MAID. 

OLF  drove  the  cows  up  from  their  pasture  by  the  river, 
whistling  all  the  way  as  was  his  wont.  It  was  not  a 
particularly  tuneful  whistle,  for  he  had  no  ear  for  music ; 
nevertheless,  blending  as  it  did  with  the  morning  ecstasies 
of  a  particularly  early  lark,  with  the  chirp  of  the  newly 
awakened  nestlings  in  the  rambling  hedges,  with  the  drone 
of  the  first  bee,  with  the  thousand  and  one  other  sounds 
of  the  summer  dawn,  these  vacillating  notes  added  some- 
thing to  the  general  harmony.  As  his  troop  of  cows 
plodded  tranquilly  in  front  of  him,  they  made  green  tracks 
in  the  dewy  sheen  of  the  fields,  the  silvery  uniformity  of 
which  had  hitherto  been  unbroken  save  for  the  print  of  Olf  s 
own  footsteps,  large  and  far  apart,  where  he  had  stridden 
forth  half  an  hour  before  to  gather  together  his  charges. 

Arrived  at  the  open  gate,  the  cows  passed  solemnly 
through,  crossed  the  road  and  turned  up  the  narrow  lane 
which  led  to  Farmer  Inkpen's  premises,  made  their  way  to 
the  shed  at  the  farther  end  and  took  possession  each  of 
her  own  stall. 

The  farmer  had  just  emerged  from  the  house,  and  was 
in  the  act  of  tying  the  strings  of  his  white  "pinner"  ;  his 
wife  and  daughter,  each  carrying  the  necessary  three- 
legged  stool,  were  walking  slowly  towards  the  scene  of 

109 


no  DORSET  DEAR 

their  morning  labours.  Another  female  form  was  already 
ensconced  on  a  similar  stool  at  the  very  farthest  end  of  the 
shed,  and  edged  itself  a  little  sideways  as  the  leading  cow 
stepped  past  it  to  her  accustomed  place.  In  a  few  minutes 
the  whole  herd  had  ranged  itself,  and  the  rhythmical  splash 
of  milk  falling  into  the  pails  was  soon  heard. 

According  to  custom,  Olfs  next  proceeding  should  have 
been  to  "  sarve  "  the  pigs,  but  instead  of  directing  his  steps 
towards  the  adjacent  styes,  he  stood  embracing  one  of  the 
posts  which  supported  the  shed,  and  gazing  at  his  master 
with  a  vague  smile  on  his  habitually  foolish  face. 

"Well,  Olf?"  inquired  the  farmer,  dropping  his  horny 
fingers  from  the  bow  which  he  had  just  succeeded  in  tying 
in  the  middle  of  his  portly  waist. 

"Well,  maister!" 

The  farmer  glanced  at  him  in  amazement. 

"  Anything  wrong  ? " 

The  smile  on  Olf's  face  expanded  into  a  grin.  Clasping 
the  post  still  more  firmly  with  one  hand,  he  swung  himself 
round  it  to  the  full  length  of  his  arm,  then  swung  himself 
back  again  and  became  suddenly  serious. 

"  Nay,  sir,  nay,  there's  nothin'  wrong.  I  thought  I  mid 
just  so  well  show  you  this  'ere." 

Down  went  his  hand  into  the  depths  of  his  pocket, 
from  which,  after  producing  sundry  articles  of  no  particular 
interest  to  any  one  but  their  owner,  he  drew  forth  a  piece 
of  paper,  folded  small,  and  soiled  with  much  fingering. 
This  he  handed  to  his  master,  his  face  now  pretematurally 
solemn,  his  eyes  round  with  an  expression  which  might 
almost  be  taken  for  one  of  awe. 


OLF  AND  THE  LITTLE  MAID  in 

Farmer  Inkpen  smoothed  out  this  document  and  read 
it,  his  jaw  dropping  with  amazement  when  he  had  mastered 
its  contents.  He  stared  at  Olf,  who  stared  back  at  him 
with  palpably  increasing  nervousness. 

"Whatever  is  it?"  cried  Mrs.  Inkpen,  thrusting  her 
head  round  from  behind  the  dappled  flank  of  her  particular 
cow.  "  No  bad  noos,  I  hope." 

"  Bad  noos ! "  ejaculated  her  husband,  recovering  his 
wits  and  his  voice  together,  "  what  d'ye  think  ?  Olf  there 
has  come  into  a  fortun' ! " 

"  Never ! "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Inkpen,  craning  her  neck  as 
far  as  she  could  round  her  charge,  but  not  ceasing  for  a 
moment  in  her  occupation.  "  You  don't  say  so ! " 

"  However  did  ye  manage  that,  Olf?"  cried  Annie  Ink- 
pen.  And  the  "spurt  spurt"  of  the  milk  into  her  pail 
ceased  for  a  moment. 

"'Tis  a  prize  drawin',"  explained  her  father,  speaking 
for  Olf,  who  was  notoriously  slow  with  his  tongue. 
"  He've  a-been  an'  took  a  ticket  in  one  o'  them  Dutch 
lotteries." 

"  Four  on  'em,"  interrupted  Olf,  with  unexpected  promp- 
titude. 

"  Eh  ? "  inquired  his  master,  turning  round  to  look  at 
him. 

"  I  say  I  did  take  four  on  'em ! "  repeated  Olf.  "  They 
was  a-talkin'  about  it  in  the  town,  an'  they  said  two  tickets 
gave  ye  a  better  chance  nor  one,  an'  four  was  the  best  of 
all.  So  I  did  settle  to  take  four." 

"  Well,  what  have  ye  got  ?  How  much  is  the  prize  ? " 
cried  the  "  missus,"  now  mightily  excited,  and  feeling  more 


ii2  DORSET  DEAR 

at  leisure  to  gratify  her  curiosity,  as  the  time  had  come  for 
"  stripping  "  her  cow. 

"A  thousand  pound,  no  less,"  shouted  her  lord  before 
Olf  could  open  his  mouth.  "Why,  Olfs  as  good  as  a 
gentleman  now.  Lard,  I  never  had  the  layin'  out  of  a 
thousand  pound  in  my  life.  Why,  ye  can  take  a  bigger 
farm  nor  this  if  ye  do  like,  an'  ye  can  stock  it  straight  off 
wi'out  being  beholden  to  anybody." 

Olf,  who  had  again  been  swinging  himself  round  the  post, 
now  paused  to  digest  this  astonishing  piece  of  information. 

Mrs.  Inkpen  cackled  as  she  picked  up  her  stool  and 
proceeded  to  operate  on  the  next  of  the  long  row. 

"  Why,  he'll  be  settin'  up  so  grand  as  you  please,"  she 
cried.  "  He'll  be  gettin'  married  first  off,  I  should  think. 
Tain't  no  use  tryin'  to  work  a  farm  wi'out  a  missus." 

At  this  juncture  light  steps  were  heard  pattering  over 
the  cobble-stones,  and  Maggie  Fry,  from  the  village  in 
the  "  dip,"  came  up,  jug  in  hand,  to  fetch  the  milk  for  her 
father's  breakfast. 

"  What  do  you  think  ? "  shouted  Annie,  raising  herself 
a  little  from  her  seat  in  order  to  judge  of  the  effect  which 
her  announcement  would  produce  upon  Maggie,  who  was 
a  crony  of  hers.  "  What  do  you  think,  Maggie  ?  Here's 
Olfred  Boyt  come  into  a  fortun'.  He've  a-been  an'  won 
the  thousand  pound  prize  in  one  of  them  Dutch  bank 
drawin's — he  is  a  rich  man  this  mornin' ! " 

"  He  is,"  chimed  in  her  mother,  with  a  crow  of  laughter. 
"  I  am  just  tellin'  him  he'll  have  to  look  out  for  a  wife  first 
thing.  Mr.  Farmer  Boyt  must  have  a  missus  to  look  after 
the  grand  noo  property  he  be  a-goin'  to  buy." 


OLF  AND  THE  LITTLE  MAID  113 

"  Ah,  sure  he  will,"  cried  the  farmer. 

Olf  swung  himself  round  the  post  once  more,  and  then 
slowly  regaining  his  former  place,  gazed  thoughtfully  at 
Annie,  whose  fair,  curly  head  was  delicately  outlined 
against  the  golden-red  flank  of  her  cow. 

"  I'd  as  soon  have  you  as  any  one,  Annie,"  he  remarked 
hesitatingly. 

"  Me ! "  cried  Annie,  jumping  up  and  knocking  over  her 
stool.  "  Of  all  the  impudence !  Me,  Olf  ?  Your  master's 
daughter  ? " 

Her  pretty  face  was  flushed  to  the  temples,  her  eyes 
were  flashing  fire.  Her  mother  and  father  burst  into  loud 
laughter,  in  which  Maggie  joined. 

"Id"  'low  he  isn't  very  slack  once  he  do  make  up  his 
mind,"  cried  the  farmer,  wiping  his  eyes.  "'Tis  a  bit 
strong,  I  will  say,  'tis  a  bit  strong,  Olf." 

"  I'll  be  a  master  myself  now,"  explained  Olf,  looking 
from  one  to  the  other,  "an'  I'd  as  soon  have  Annie  as 
any  one,"  he  added  with  conviction. 

"Well,  I'd  a  deal  sooner  not  have  you,''  ejaculated 
Annie,  picking  up  her  stool,  and  sitting  down  again  with 
a  suddenness  that  betokened  great  perturbation  of  mind. 
"  I  think  'tis  most  awful  cheeky  of  you,  Olf,  to  ask  me, 
an'  I  don't  see  as  it  is  any  laughing  matter." 

Thereupon  she  fell  to  work  again,  the  milk  falling  into 
her  pail  in  a  jerky  manner,  which,  while  relieving  her  own 
feeling,  was  not  altogether  satisfactory  to  her  meek  charge, 
whose  horned  head  came  peering  round  as  though  to 
ascertain  the  cause  of  this  unusual  disturbance. 

Olf,   after   contemplating   for  a   moment   the   resolute 


ii4  DORSET  DEAR 

outline  of  the  back  presented  to  him  so  decidedly,  slowly 
turned  his  gaze  upon  Maggie,  who  still  stood  by,  laughing 
and  dangling  her  jug. 

"Will  you  have  me,  Maggie?"  he  inquired  pleasantly. 

"  Dear  heart  alive ! "  ejaculated  the  farmer,  while  his 
wife  once  more  gave  utterance  to  a  shout  of  laughter. 

It  was  now  Maggie's  turn  to  flush  and  look  disconcerted. 
"  I'm  not  goin'  to  put  up  wi'  Annie's  leavings,"  she  cried 
indignantly.  "  The  idea  !  I  s'pose  you  reckon  any  maid 
is  to  be  picked  up  for  the  axin',  Olfred  Boyt.  You  think 
you  have  nothin'  more  to  do  nor  just  p'int  your  ringer  at 
the  first  one  you  fancy  an'  she'll  have  you  straight  off. 
A  pretty  notion  ! " 

"  A  pretty  notion  indeed,"  cried  Annie,  "  and  a  pretty 
figure  he'd  be  to  go  out  a-coortin' ! " 

"  'E-es,"  resumed  Maggie,  with  ever-increasing  indigna- 
tion, "  a  pretty  figure,  I  d'  'low.  Tell  ye  what,  Olf,  next 
time  you  go  a-coortin'  ye'd  best  wash  your  face  first." 

"  Ah  !  'tis  true.  'Twould  be  a  good  notion,"  laughed  the 
farmer.  "  Ye  bain't  exactly  the  kind  o'  figure  a  maid  'ud 
jump  at." 

Olf  raised  a  grimy  hand  to  his  sunburnt  face  as  though 
to  ascertain  what  manner  of  appearance  it  presented.  It 
was  true  he  had  not  washed  it  that  morning,  but  there  was 
nothing  surprising  in  that.  It  would  indeed  have  been  a 
manifestly  sinful  waste  of  soap  and  water  to  perform  one's 
ablutions  before  "  sarving  "  the  pigs.  In  fact,  according  to 
established  custom,  Olf  s  toilet  was  accomplished  at  a  late 
hour  in  the  afternoon  when  his  labours  were  concluded. 
The  condition  of  his  chin  would  have  at  once  announced 


OLF  AND  THE  LITTLE  MAID  115 

to  any  experienced  observer  that  it  was  then  the  middle  of 
the  week  ;  from  the  appearance  of  his  garments  he  might 
have  recently  effected  a  change  with  a  tolerably  respectable 
scarecrow.  Altogether,  after  a  moment's  reflection,  Olf 
felt  that  Maggie's  point  of  view  was  justified,  and  that  he 
was  not  precisely  the  kind  of  figure  to  go  courting  at  such 
short  notice.  Presently  he  remarked  reflectively,  "  Ah ! 
'tis  true,  I  mid  'ave  washed  myself  a  bit  afore  axin'  the 
question.  I  will  next  time." 

Then  he  held  out  his  hand  to  the  farmer  for  the  paper, 
pocketed  it,  and  went  shambling  across  the  yard  towards 
the  corner  where  the  pig-bucket  stood. 

Except  for  the  clatter  of  the  cans,  and  the  sound  of  the 
spurting  milk,  silence  reigned  in  the  shed  for  a  moment 
after  his  departure.  The  farmer  stood  scratching  his  chin 
meditatively,  while  the  women-folk  appeared  also  lost  in 
thought. 

By-and-by  Mrs.  Inkpen's  voice  sounded  muffled  from 
behind  her  cow.  "A  thousand  pound,  mind  ye,  isn't  to 
be  picked  up  every  day". 

"  It  bain't,"  cried  her  husband. 

Annie  tossed  her  head.  "  He  be  a  regular  sammy,"  she 
remarked. 

"  And  'tisn't  as  if  a  maid  hadn't  plenty  of  other  chaps  to 
walk  with,"  chimed  in  Maggie. 

From  the  farthest  comer  a  little  voice  suddenly  sounded, 
"  He  be  a  very  kind  man,  Olf  be.  He  be  a  very  kind  man." 

"  Do  you  think  so,  Kitty  ? "  called  out  the  farmer  good- 
naturedly.  "  Hark  to  the  little  maid !  You  think  Olf  be 

a  kind  man,  do  ye,  Kitty  ? " 

8  * 


ii6  DORSET  DEAR 

"  Don't  talk  so  much  and  mind  your  work,  Kitty,"  said 
Mrs.  Inkpen  severely.  "  Nobody  axed  your  opinion. 
The  idea,"  she  continued,  in  an  angry  undertone  to  her 
husband,  "  of  a  little  chit,  the  same  as  that,  puttin'  in  her 
word.  What  does  she  know  about  Olf,  or  what  kind  of  a 
man  he  is  ?  You  will  have  to  be  lookin1  out  for  somebody 
else  to  take  Olfs  place,  that's  what  I'm  thinkin',"  she 
remarked  presently  to  her  husband.  "  'Tis  a  pity.  Olf  be 
a  bit  of  a  sammy,  as  Annie  do  say,  but  he  is  a  good  worker 
and  never  gives  no  trouble.  I  could  wish  somebody  else 
had  won  the  fortun'." 

The  two  girls  were  now  gossiping  together  and  inter- 
changing various  opinions  derogatory  to  Olf,  and  eulo- 
gistic of  sundry  other  youths  with  whom  it  would  appear 
they  "  walked  "  by  preference.  By-and^by  the  milking  was 
concluded,  and  the  farmer  and  his  women-folk  went  into 
breakfast,  Maggie  having  taken  her  departure  some  minutes 
before. 

As  the  cows  began  to  troop  pasturewards  again,  Olf, 
standing  by  the  yard-gate,  noticed  a  girl's  figure  come 
darting  forth  from  the  obscurity  of  the  shed.  It  was 
Kitty,  a  workhouse-bred  orphan,  whom  Mrs.  Inkpen  had 
engaged  as  general  help  in  house  and  dairy.  She  was  a 
little  creature,  small  and  slight,  with  a  round  freckled  face 
and  flaming  red  hair.  I  say  "  flaming "  advisedly,  for  it 
seemed  to  give  forth  as  well  as  to  receive  light.  Her  face, 
habitually  pink  and  white,  was  now  extremely  pink  all  over 
as  she  paused  opposite  Olf;  a  dimple  peeped  in  and  out 
near  the  corner  of  her  mouth,  and  her  teeth  flashed  in  a 
smile  that  was  half-shy  and  half-mischievous. 


OLF  AND  THE  LITTLE  MAID  117 

"  Please,  Olf,"  said  she, "  if  you  are  lookin'  for  a  wife,  I'm 
willin'  to  have  ye." 

Olf,  who  had  been  about  to  pass  through  the  gate  in  the 
rear  of  his  charges,  wheeled  about  and  faced  her,  scratch- 
ing his  jaw  meditatively. 

"  Oh,  an'  are  you,  Kitty  ? "  said  he. 

"  E-es,"  said  Kitty,  nodding  emphatically. 

Olf  eyed  her  thoughtfully,  and  then  his  eyes  reverted  to 
the  cows,  which,  after  the  perverse  manner  of  their  kind, 
were  nibbling  at  the  quickset  hedge  over  the  way. 

"Who-ope,  who-ope,"  he  called  warningly,  and  then 
once  more  glanced  at  Kitty.  "  We'll  talk  about  that  'ere 
when  I  come  back,"  he  remarked,  and  sauntered  forth 
pulling  the  rickety  gate  to  after  him. 

Kitty  paused  a  moment  with  a  puzzled  look,  and  then, 
being  a  philosophical  young  person,  picked  up  her  pail 
and  betook  herself  indoors. 

She  had  finished  a  somewhat  perfunctory  breakfast,  and 
was  on  her  knees  scrubbing  the  doorstep  when  Olf  re- 
turned. She  heard  his  footfall  crossing  the  yard,  but  did 
not  look  round,  neither  did  she  glance  up  when  his  shadow 
fell  upon  the  sunlit  flags.  After  the  necessary  pause  for 
adjustment  of  his  ideas,  Olf  broke  the  silence. 

"  You'd  be  willin'  to  take  me  ? "  said  he. 

"  E-es,"  returned  Kitty,  without  raising  her  head. 

Olf  paused  a  moment,  then — "  You'd  like  to  marry  me, 
would  ye,  Kitty  ? " 

"  E-es,"  said  Kitty  again. 

"They  two  other  maids  wouldn't  so  much  as  look  at 
me,"  pursued  Olf,  in  a  ruminative  tone.  "  I  wonder  what 
makes  ye  think  you'd  like  to  marry  me,  maidie  ? " 


n8  DORSET  DEAR 

Kitty  sat  back  upon  her  heels  and  contemplated  him 
gravely,  mechanically  soaping  her  scrubbing-brush  the 
while. 

"  You  did  carry  my  pail  for  I  t'other  day  when  'twas  too 
heavy,"  she  replied  presently,  "and  you  did  black  my 
shoes  on  Sunday  when  I  was  afraid  I  would  be  late  for 
church.  And  besides,"  she  added,  "  I  think  'twould  be 
nice  to  get  married,  and  there — I  be  so  sick  of  scrubbin' 
doorsteps  and  cleanin'  pots  and  pans ! " 

"  That's  it,  be  it  ? "  said  Olf.  "  But  you  mid  still  have 
to  clean  pots  and  pans  after  we  was  married,  Kitty,"  he 
added  with  a  provident  eye  to  the  future.  "  The  missus, 
she  do  often  do  a  bit  of  cleanin'  up,  if  she  be  the 
missus." 

"  That  would  be  different,"  returned  Kitty.  "  I  shouldn't 
have  no  objections  to  scourin'  my  own  pots  and  pans." 

"  True,  true,"  agreed  Olf. 

Kitty  dropped  on  all-fours  again.  "  Well,  I  have  told 
ye  I'd  be  willin',"  she  observed  in  somewhat  ruffled  tones, 
"  but  of  course  ye  needn't  if  ye  don't  like." 

"  Who  says  I  don't  like  ?  "  returned  Olf,  with  unexpected 
warmth.  "  I  d'  'low  I  do  like.  I  do  think  it  a  very  good 
notion,  my  maid." 

Kitty  gave  a  little  unexpected  giggle,  and  continued  to 
polish  her  doorstep  with  an  immense  deal  of  energy.  Olf 
stood  by  for  a  moment  in  silence.  Then  to  her  surprise, 
and  it  must  be  owned,  dismay,  he  turned  about  and  walked 
slowly  away. 

If  Kitty  had  been  unwilling  to  turn  her  head  a  few 
moments  before,  no  earthly  power  would  have  induced  her 


OLF  AND  THE  LITTLE  MAID  119 

to  glance  round  at  him  now  ;  she  began  to  sing  blithely  and 
carelessly  to  herself,  and  made  a  great  clatter  with  her  pail 
and  scrubbing-brush.  Not  such  a  clatter,  however,  but 
that  after  a  moment  or  two  she  detected  the  sound  of 
vigorous  pumping  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  yard,  and 
guessed,  from  certain  subsequent  sounds,  that  Olf  was 
washing  his  face. 

Louder  than  ever  sang  Kitty  when  he  presently  crossed 
the  yard  again  and  bent  over  her.  But  a  wave  of  colour 
rushed  over  her  downcast  face,  and  even  dyed  her  little 
white  neck.  She  could  hear  Olf  chuckling,  and  presently  a 
large  finger,  moist  from  recent  ablutions,  touched  her  chin. 

"  Lookup  a  minute,  my  maid,"  said  Olf. 

Kitty  looked  up.  Olf  s  sunburnt  face  was  scarlet  from 
the  result  of  his  late  exertions,  and  was  imperfectly  dried, 
but  it  wore  so  frank  and  kindly  a  smile  that  the  little  maid 
smiled  back  with  absolute  confidence. 

"  So  we  be  to  start  a-coortin',  be  we  ? "  inquired  Olf 
pleasantly. 

"  I  d'  'low  we  be,"  responded  Kitty. 

"  How's  that  for  a  beginnin',  then  ? "  inquired  Olf.  And 
thereupon  h,e  kissed  her. 

At  this  moment  Mrs.  Inkpen  appeared  on  the  threshold, 
and  soon  her  penetrating  tones  announced  to  the  house- 
hold that  Olf  was  at  last  suited  with  a  bride.  A  good 
deal  of  jesting  and  laughing  ensued — not  perhaps  alto- 
gether good-natured,  for  in  some  unaccountable  way  both 
Mrs.  Inkpen  and  Annie  felt  themselves  slighted  by  this 
sudden  transfer  of  Olf  s  affection — but  the  newly-engaged 
couple  submitted  to  their  raillery  with  entire  good  humour, 


no  DORSET  DEAR 

and   presently  resumed    their    interrupted    vocations    as 
though  nothing  particular  had  taken  place. 

Towards  evening,  however,  Olf  found  a  moment  for  a 
word  with  his  little  sweetheart. 

"  I  be  a-goin'  over  to  take  this  'ere  bit  of  writin'  to 
the  bank  to-morrow,"  said  he.  "  Maister  says  'tis  the  best 
thing  to  do.  He  says  they'll  keep  it  and  give  I  money 
when  I  do  want  it.  I  were  a-thinkin',  Kitty,  I  mid  make 
ye  a  bit  of  a  present — 'tis  all  in  the  way  o'  coortin',  bain't 
it  ?  I  wonder  now  what  you'd  like  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  "  cried  Kitty,  her  eyes  dancing  with  excitement, 
"  that's  real  good  o'  ye,  Olf.  I  can't  call  to  mind  as  any- 
body ever  gave  me  a  present.  I  do  want  a  new  hat 
terrible  bad." 

"  A  new  hat,"  repeated  Olf,  "  that's  easy  got.  Wouldn't 
ye  like  summat  a  bit  grander — a  real  handsome  present  ? 
What  would  you  like  best  in  the  world,  Kitty  ? " 

"  O-o-o-h ! "  cried  Kitty  again,  and  this  time  her  eyes 
became  round  with  something  that  was  almost  awe. 
"What  I'd  like  best  in  the  whole  world,  Olf,  would  be 
to  have  a  gold  watch.  I  did  dream  once  that  I  did  have 
a  real  gold  watch  o'  my  own,  and  I  never,  never,  never 
thought  that  it  mid  come  true.  O-o-o-h  !  if  I  was  to  have 
a  gold  watch  ! " 

"  Say  no  more,  maidie,"  exclaimed  Olf,  with  doughty 
resolution,  "  you  shall  have  that  there  gold  watch  so  sure 
as  my  name  be  Olfred  Boyt.  There  now  !  And  you  can 
show  it  to  Annie  and  Maggie  Fry,  and  they  can  see  for 
theirselves  what  they  mid  ha'  had  if  they  had  been  willin' 
to  take  me." 


OLF  AND  THE  LITTLE  MAID  121 

Kitty  pouted.  "You  don't  want  to  marry  them  now 
you  be  a  goin'  to  marry  I,  do  ye  ? "  she  inquired  pettishly. 

"  No  more  I  do,"  cried  Olf,  "  but  they  mid  ha1  been  a 
bit  more  civil." 

Kitty  agreeing  to  this  statement,  harmony  was  at  once 
restored,  and  the  pair  parted  with  complete  satisfaction. 

Next  day  Olf  duly  conferred  with  his  banker,  and  in 
an  extremely  bad  hand,  and  with  difficulty,  accomplished 
the  writing  of  his  first  cheque.  It  was  for  £5 — a  sum  of 
money  which  he  had  never  in  all  his  life  hoped  to  possess 
at  one  time.  In  fact,  he  was  more  elated  at  the  sight  of 
the  five  golden  sovereigns  than  he  had  been  in  contem- 
plating his  thousand  pound  bond.  He  expended  a  certain 
portion  of  this  new  wealth  on  his  own  personal  adornment 
— having  his  hair  cut  at  a  barber's  for  the  first  time  in  his 
existence,  and  investing  in  a  new  suit  of  clothes,  the 
pattern  being  a  check  of  a  somewhat  startling  description. 
He  also  purchased  a  hat  for  Kitty  with  a  wreath  of  blue 
flowers,  supplemented,  at  his  particular  request,  by  a  white 
feather. 

"  We  do  not  generally  use  feathers  with  flowers,"  ex- 
postulated the  shopwoman. 

Olf  considered.  "  I  think  I  will  have  the  feather  all 
the  same,"  said  he ;  "  feathers  is  more  richer-like." 

"  I  did  not  want  for  to  grudge  ye  nothin',  ye  see,"  he 
subsequently  explained  to  Kitty,  "  and  this  'ere  is  the  gold 
watch." 

Kitty  positively  gasped  with  rapture.  It  was  a  very 
fine  watch  certainly,  extremely  yellow,  and  with  a  little 
diapered  pattern  on  the  case. 


122  DORSET  DEAR 

"It  cost  thirty-five  shillin',"  explained  Olf,  with  modest 
triumph.  "Tis  rolled  gold,  so  you  may  think  how  good 
that  must  be." 

Kitty  gasped  again.  Farmer  Inkpen  possessed  a  gold 
watch  of  turnip  shape  and  immense  weight,  but  she  felt 
quite  sure  it  was  not  rolled  gold,  and  in  consequence  a 
highly  inferior  article.  She  turned  towards  Olf  with  a 
sudden  movement  and  clasped  both  her  little  hands  about 
his  arm — "  I  do  like  ye,  Olf,"  she  said,  "  I  do.  I  do  think 
ye  be  the  kindest  man  that  ever  was  made.  I'll  work  for 
ye  so  hard  as  I  can  when  I  be  your  missus." 

There  being  no  reason  to  delay  the  wedding,  prepara- 
tions were  made  at  once  for  that  auspicious  event.  On 
the  following  Sunday  the  banns  were  put  up  ;  Kitty  and 
Olf  paid  several  visits  to  the  upholsterer's  in  the  neigh- 
bouring town  and  selected  sundry  articles  of  furniture,  Olf 
giving  orders  right  and  left  in  a  lordly  fashion  which  quite 
dazzled  his  future  bride.  Farmer  Inkpen  made  inquiries 
with  regard  to  a  certain  farm  which  he  thought  might 
possibly  suit  his  former  assistant,  and  was  moreover  good 
enough  to  promise  help  and  advice  in  the  selection  of 
stock.  All,  in  fact,  was  proceeding  merrily  as  that  marriage 
bell  which  they  both  so  soon  expected  to  hear,  when  there 
came  of  a  sudden  a  bolt  from  the  blue.  The  manager 
of  the  local  bank  sent  a  peremptory  message  one  evening 
to  Olf  requesting,  or  rather  ordering,  him  to  call  without 
delay. 

The  poor  fellow  obeyed  the  summons  without  alarm, 
without  even  the  faintest  suspicion  that  anything  was 
wrong,  and  it  was  indeed  with  great  difficulty  that  the 


OLF  AND  THE  LITTLE  MAID  123 

manager  conveyed  to  him  the  astounding  fact  that  the 
precious  bond,  which  was  to  have  been  the  foundation  of 
his  fortune,  was  so  much  waste  paper ;  the  prize-drawing 
had  been  a  swindling  concern,  and  the  thousand  pound 
prize  did  not  exist. 

"  But  I  thought  you  told  I  that  'ere  bit  o'  paper  was 
a  thousand  pound,"  expostulated  Olf,  when  for  the  for- 
tieth time  the  manager  had  explained  the  state  of  the 
case. 

"  That  bit  of  paper  represented  a  thousand  pounds," 
returned  that  gentleman,  with  diminishing  patience,  "  but 
when  we  came  to  collect  it,  the  money  wasn't  there." 

Olf  scratched  his  head  and  looked  at  him.  "  And  what 
be  I  to  do  now  ? "  he  inquired. 

"  Why,  nothing,  I  am  afraid.  I  don't  suppose  you  would 
be  able  to  prosecute,  and  even  if  you  had  the  money  to 
carry  on  your  case,  it  would  not  do  you  much  good  to 
get  those  swindlers  punished.  You  will  just  have  to  grin 
and  bear  it,  my  poor  fellow.  We  will  give  you  time  you 
know — we  won't  be  hard  with  you." 

"  Time  ? "  ejaculated  Olf,  staring  at  him  blankly. 

"  Yes.  We  have  let  you  have  £5  on  account  you  know. 
That  will  have  to  be  paid  back,  of  course,  but  we  won't 
press  you.  You  can  let  us  have  it  little  by  little." 

"  Oh  ! "  said  Olf,  "  thank  ye,"  and  he  went  out,  absently 
stroking  the  check  sleeve  of  the  beautiful  new  suit  which 
had  cost  him  so  dear. 

He  shambled  back  to  the  farm  and  paused  by  the  gate, 
across  which  Mr.  Inkpen  was  leaning. 

"  Hullo,  Olf,  back  again  ? " 


124  DORSET  DEAR 

"  'E-es,"  said  Olf,  "  I  be  back  again,  maister.  Ye  bain't 
suited  yet,  be  ye  ?  " 

"  Not  yet,"  said  the  farmer,  "  but  ye  can't  be  married 
afore  another  fortnight,  can  ye  ?  I  s'pose  you'll  lend  me  a 
hand  until  you  shift?" 

"  I  bain't  a-goin'  to  shift.  I  bain't  a-goin'  to  get  wed, 
I  bain't — "  He  paused,  his  lip  trembling  for  a  moment 
piteously  like  a  child's.  "It  is  all  a  mistake,  maister — 
there  bain't  no  money  there." 

"  Dear  to  be  sure,"  cried  Farmer  Inkpen. 

Olf  stood  gazing  at  him.  There  was  a  dimness  about 
his  eyes,  and  he  bit  his  lips  to  stop  their  quivering. 

Mr.  Inkpen's  loud  exclamation  caused  the  women-folk 
to  appear  on  the  scene,  and  in  a  moment  the  entire  house- 
hold was  assembled  and  plying  Olf  with  questions. 

"  There  is  nothin'  more  to  tell  ye,"  he  said  at  last.  "  Tis 
a  mistake.  There  bain't  no  money  there — I  can't  take  no 
farm.  I  must  ax  the  folk  o'  the  shop  to  keep  that  'ere 
furniture  and  things — I  haven't  made  no  fortun',  I  be  just 
the  same  as  I  was  'afore,  'cept  as  I  have  a-got  to  pay  back 
a  matter  of  £5  to  the  bank." 

Little  Kitty  stood  by,  growing  red  and  pale  in  turn,  and 
fingering  the  watch  in  her  waistband.  All  at  once  she 
gave  a  loud  sob  and  rushed  away. 

"  Ah !  she  be  like  to  feel  it,"  said  the  farmer,  whose 
heart  was  perhaps  more  tender  than  that  of  his  wife  or 
daughter.  "  She'll  feel  it,  poor  little  maid.  Sich  a  chance 
for  her — and  now  to  go  back  to  her  scrubbin'  and  cleanin' 
just  the  same  as  'afore." 

Olf  heaved  a  deep  sigh.     "  Well,"  he  said,  "  I'll  go  home 


OLF  AND  THE  LITTLE  MAID  125 

and  take  off  these  'ere  clothes,  and  I'll  come  back  and 
finish  my  work,  maister." 

He  then  turned  away,  a  very  low-spirited  and  drooping 
figure,  his  shoulders  round  under  that  astonishing  plaid, 
his  head  sunk  almost  on  to  his  chest.  After  a  little  more 
talk  the  family  separated,  Mrs.  Inkpen  feeling  some  irrita- 
tion on  discovering  that  Kitty  was  nowhere  to  be  found. 

"  She's  run  off  to  cry,"  said  Annie.  "  However,  don't 
ye  take  no  notice  of  her  for  this  once,  mother;  'tis  but 
natural  she  should  be  a  bit  down,  poor  little  maid." 

Olf  had  finished  his  work  and  was  going  dejectedly 
homewards  that  night  when,  in  the  narrow  lane  which  led 
from  the  farm  towards  the  village,  he  was  waylaid  by  a 
well-known  figure.  It  was  Kitty.  Her  eyes  were  filled 
with  tears,  her  face  very  pale,  yet  nevertheless  there  was  a 
note  of  triumph  in  her  voice. 

"  I've  been  to  the  town,  Olf,"  she  cried.  "  I  didn't  want 
ye  to  be  at  a  loss  through  me,  and  the  folks  was  kind. 
They  took  back  the  watch  all  right  and  gave  me  the  thirty- 
five  shillin'  for  it.  They  wouldn't  take  back  the  hat  at  the 
shop  where  you  got  it,  along  'o  my  wearin'  it  you  know. 
They  did  tell  me  of  a  place  where  they  buy  second-hand 
things,  and  they  gave  me  seven  shillin'  for  it  there.  So 
that  won't  be  so  bad  will  it  ?  You  can  pay  that  much  to 
the  bank  straight  off." 

Olf  looked  at  her  dejectedly.  "  There,  my  maid,"  cried 
he.  "  I  wish  ye  hadn't  done  that.  I  could  wish  ye  had 
kept  them  two  things  what  I  did  give  ye — 'twas  all  I  could 
do  for  ye.  We  can  never  do  all  we'd  like  to  do  now." 

Kitty  sobbed. 


iz6  DORSET  DEAR 

"  I  take  it  very  kind  o'  ye  to  be  so  feelin',"  said  Olf. 
"  I  could  wish  we  could  have  got  wed,  my  maid.  I'd  ha' 
been  a  lovin'  husband,  and  I  d'  'low  you'd  ha'  been  a 
lovin'  wife." 

"  I  would,"  sobbed  Kitty. 

"  But  there,  'tis  all  over,  bain't  it  ?  I  be  nothin'  but  a 
poor  chap  earnin'  of  a  poor  wage.  You  be  a  vitty  maid 
too  good  for  the  likes  o'  me.  I'll  never  have  a  wife  now." 

"  I  don't  see  that,"  said  Kitty,  in  a  low  voice.  She  was 
hanging  her  head  and  drawing  patterns  with  the  point  of 
her  shoe  in  the  sandy  soil. 

Olf  stared  at  her,  and  then  repeated  his  statement.  "  A 
poor  man  earnin'  of  a  poor  wage,  Kitty.  I'll  never  have  a 
wife." 

"  Why  not  ?  "  said  Kitty,  almost  inarticulately.  "  Many 
poor  men  get  wed,  Olf." 

Olf  caught  his  breath  with  a  gasp.  "  Kitty,"  he  cried, 
"  Kitty,  do  ye  mean  you'd  take  me  now  wi'out  no  fortun', 
and  just  as  I  be  ?  You'd  never  take  me  now,  Kitty  ? " 

"  I  would,"  said  Kitty,  and  she  hid  her  face  on  his 
patched  shoulder  and  burst  into  tears. 

"  Then  I  don't  care  about  nothin',"  cried  Olf  valiantly. 
"  If  you  would  really  like  it,  Kitty,  say  no  more." 

"  I  would,"  said  Kitty  again.  And  then  raising  her 
head,  she  smiled  at  him  through  her  tears.  "  But  don't 
tell  nobody  I  axed  ye,"  said  she. 


IN  THE  HEART  OF  THE  GREEN. 

WHEN  the  new  keeper  and  his  wife  took  possession  of 
their  cottage,  deep  in  the  heart  of  Westbury  Chase,  summer 
was  still  at  its  height.  Jim  Whittle's  real  responsibilities 
had  not  yet  begun — a  little  breathing  space  was,  as  it  were, 
allotted  to  the  young  couple  before  settling  thoroughly  into 
harness.  So  Betty  thought  at  least,  though  Jim  frequently 
reminded  her  that  summer  was  as  anxious  a  time  as  any 
other  for  a  man  in  his  position. 

"  What  with  folks  expectin'  the  young  birds  to  be  nigh 
full-growed  afore  they  was  much  more  than  hatched  out ; 
and  what  wi'  the  fear  of  there  being  too  much  wet,  or  too 
much  sun,  and  varmint  an'  sich-like,  I  can  tell  ye,  Betty," 
said  he,  "  I'm  as  anxious  in  summer  as  in  winter,  very 
near." 

Nevertheless,  he  found  time  to  do  many  little  odd  jobs 
for  her  which  he  could  not  have  accomplished  in  the 
shooting  season :  knocking  together  shelves,  digging  in 
the  garden,  chopping  up  the  store  of  wood  which  she 
herself  collected  as  she  strolled  out  in  her  spare  hours. 
Betty  was  as  happy  as  a  bird  in  those  days.  Their  new 
home  had  been  put  in  order  before  their  advent,  and  was 
spick  and  span  from  roof  to  threshold  ;  the  fresh  thatch 
glinted  bravely  through  the  heavy  summer  foliage;  the 

flowers  in  the  little  garden  made  patches  of  bright  colour 

127 


128  DORSET  DEAR 

amid  the  surrounding  green.  Betty  herself  in  her  print 
dress  and  with  her  hair  shining  like  polished  gold,  Betty 
carrying  her  six-months-old  child  poised  on  her  round  arm, 
was  an  almost  startling  figure  to  those  who  came  upon  her 
suddenly  in  the  leafy  aisles  about  her  home.  Brown  and 
grey  and  fawn  and  russet  are  the  tones  chiefly  affected  by 
forest  people ;  yet  here  were  the  mother  and  child,  wood 
creatures  both  of  them,  flaunting  it  in  their  pinks  and 
yellows  before  autumn  had  so  much  as  crimsoned  a  leaf. 

What  wonder  that  the  shy  folk  in  fur  or  feather  peered 
at  them  with  round  astonished  eyes,  ere  scuttling  to  cover 
or  taking  to  flight. 

Dick  Tuffin,  the  woodman,  looked  up  in  surprise  from 
the  faggot  he  had  just  bound  together,  when  Betty  and 
her  baby-boy  came  towards  him  one  sunny  morning  from 
one  of  the  many  shadowy  avenues  which  abutted  on  a 
glade  cleared  by  his  own  hands.  As  she  advanced,  he  sat 
back  upon  his  heels  amid  the  slender  sappy  victims  of  his 
axe,  and  frankly  stared  at  her. 

He  was  a  young  man,  dark  as  a  gipsy,  muscular  and 
lithe,  with  quick-glancing  eyes  and  a  flashing  smile. 

"  Good  day,"  said  Betty,  pausing  civilly. 

"  Good  day  to  you,  Mum.  I  d'  'low  you  be  new  keeper's 
wife?" 

"  Yes,  I  am  Mrs.  Whittle,"  said  Betty.  "  Are  you  cutting 
down  my  husband's  woods? "  she  added,  smiling. 

"  Ah !  your  husband's  woods  'ud  not  be  in  sich  good 
order  as  they  do  be  if  it  wasn't  for  I  an'  sich  as  I,"  re- 
turned the  man.  "  I  do  cut  down  a  piece  reg'lar  every 
year,  an'  then  the  young  growth  comes,  d'ye  see,  twice  so 


IN  THE  HEART  OF  THE  GREEN  129 

thick  as  before,  so  that  the  game  can  find  so  much  shelter 
as  they  do  like." 

"  And  what  are  you  going  to  do  with  all  these  poor  little 
trees  ? "  inquired  Betty.  "  They  are  too  green  for  fire- 
wood, aren't  they  ?  " 

"  Well,"  said  Dick,  with  his  infectious  smile,  "  I  make 
hurdles  wi'  'em  for  one  thing,  an'  some  of  'em  goes  for 
pea- sticks,  an'  others  is  made  into  besoms.  They  mid  be 
green,"  he  added  reflectively,  "but  folks  do  come  here 
often  enough  a-pickin'  up  scrofffor  burnin'." 

Here  the  child  on  Betty's  arm  began  to  whimper,  and 
she  nodded  to  it  and  dandled  it,  her  own  person  keeping 
up  a  swaying,  dancing  movement  the  while. 

Dick  Tuffin  watched  her,  at  first  with  a  smile ;  but  pre- 
sently his  face  clouded. 

"You  have  a  better  time  of  it,  Mrs.  Whittle,"  said  he, 
"  nor  my  poor  little  'ooman  at  home.  You  do  see  your 
husband  so  often  as  you  like ;  but  there,  I  must  bide  away 
from  home  for  weeks  and  months  at  a  time.  I  mid  almost 
say  I  haven't  got  a  home ;  and  Mary,  she  mid  say  she 
haven't  got  a  husband." 

"  How's  that  ?  "  inquired  Betty,  pausing,  with  the  now 
laughing  child  suspended  in  mid-air,  to  turn  her  astonished 
face  upon  him. 

"  My  place  is  nigh  upon  fifteen  mile  away  from  here.  I 
go  travellin'  the  countiy  round,  cuttin'  the  woods  and 
makin'  hurdles ;  an'  'tis  too  far  to  get  back  except  for  a 
little  spell  now  and  then.  I  didn't  think  o'  wedlock  when 
I  took  up  the  work,  an'  now  I  d'  'low  I  wouldn't  care  to 
turn  to  any  other.  But  ;tis  hard  on  the  'ooman." 

9 


130  DORSET  DEAR 

"  She  oughtn't  to  let  you  do  it !  "  cried  the  keeper's  wife 
firmly.  "  Ha'  done,  Jim ;  ha'  done,  thou  naughty  boy ! 
I'll  throw  thee  over  the  trees  in  a  minute ! " 

The  child  had  clutched  at  her  golden  locks,  pulling  one 
strand  loose;  she  caught  at  the  chubby  hand,  made  believe  to 
slap  it,and  then  kissed  the  little  pink  palm  half  a  dozen  times. 

"Your  wife  ought  to  make  you  get  your  livin'  some 
other  way,"  she  added  seriously. 

"  It  couldn't  be  done  now,"  said  the  woodman.  "  I  have 
done  nothin'  but  fell  trees  an'  plesh  hurdles  since  I  was 
quite  a  little  'un.  I  couldn't  do  naught  else,"  he  added  some- 
what dreamily ;  "  I  fancy  I  couldn't  bide  anywhere  except 
in  a  wood." 

"Well,  'tis  a  fine  life,"  said  she,  willing  to  say  something 
civil. 

"  Yes,  pleasant  enough,"  he  agreed.  "  If  I  could  tole  my 
missus  about  I'd  never  complain  ;  but,  there !  it  can't  be 
done." 

He  tossed  the  faggot  on  one  side,  and  began  to  collect 
materials  for  another.  Betty  noticed  a  great  rent  in  his 
fustian  waistcoat,  and,  commenting  upon  the  fact,  volun- 
teered to  mend  it. 

"  'Tis  awkward  for  ye  having  no  one  to  sew  for  ye,"  she 
added,  as  Dick  gratefully  divested  himself  of  the  garment 
in  question. 

"  Tis  that,"  agreed  Tuflfin.  "  I  do  move  about  so  often 
the  folks  where  I  lodge  do  never  seem  to  take  a  bit  of 
interest  in  I.  My  wife,  she  do  fair  cry  at  times  when  she 
do  see  the  state  my  things  be  in.  Come,  I'll  hold  the 
youngster  for  ye,  Mum." 


IN  THE  HEART  OF  THE  GREEN  131 

"  Oh,  he'll  be  all  right  on  the  soft  grass  here ! " 

"  Nay,  I'd  like  to  hold  'en  if  ye'll  let  me.  I  want  to  get 
my  hand  in,  d'ye  see.  There'll  be  a  little  un  at  our  place 
very  soon." 

"  I  do  call  it  unfeelin'  of  ye  to  leave  your  wife  alone 
at  such  a  time,"  remarked  Betty  reprovingly. 

"  Her  mother's  wi'  her,"  returned  Dick.  "  I'll  go  home 
for  a  bit  in  a  fortnight  or  so,  but  I  must  be  back  in 
October." 

He  chirruped  to  the  child,  swinging  him  high  in  the  air, 
till  Baby  Jim  crowed  and  laughed  again.  Soon  Mrs. 
Whittle's  task  was  accomplished,  and  she  handed  back  the 
waistcoat  to  its  owner,  receiving  his  profuse  thanks  in 
return.  As  she  walked  away  through  the  chequered  light 
and  shade  Dick  looked  after  her. 

"  Some  folks  is  luckier  nor  others,"  he  said.  "  Keeper 
can  live  in  the  woods  and  have  wife  and  child  anigh  him, 
too ;  but  I,  if  I  be  to  live  at  all,  must  live  alone." 

Then  he  thought  of  the  little  brown  wife  in  that  far- 
away village,  and  wondered  with  a  sudden  tightening  of 
the  heart-strings  how  she  was  getting  on ;  but  presently 
he  whistled  again,  in  time  to  the  rhythmic  strokes  of  his 
axe,  as  he  pointed  the  sowels  for  his  next  lot  of  hurdles. 

On  the  following  morning  when  Betty  was  sweeping  out 
her  house  a  shadow  fell  across  the  threshold,  and,  looking 
up,  she  descried  the  woodman. 

"  I've  brought  ye  a  new  besom,"  said  he,  with  a  some- 
what shamefaced  smile.  "  One  good  turn  do  deserve 
another,  Mrs.  Whittle." 

"Thank  ye  kindly,  I'm  sure,"  returned   Betty,  with  a 

9* 


132  DORSET  DEAR 

bright  smile.  "  I  never  thought  of  your  making  any 
return  for  the  few  stitches  I  set  for  ye.  The  besom  is  a 
beauty,  Mr.  Tuffin." 

"  Glad  ye  like  it,"  said  Dick,  turning  to  take  his  leave. 

"  If  ye've  any  other  bits  o'  mending,  Mr.  Tuffin,"  Betty 
called  after  him,  "  I'd  be  pleased  to  do  'em  for  ye." 

"  Nay,  now,  I  don't  like  puttin'  too  much  on  your  good 
nature,  Mrs.  Whittle,"  said  Dick,  glancing  over  his  shoulder 
with  a  sheepish  smile. 

But  the  keeper's  wife  insisted ;  and  presently  Dick  con- 
fessed that  there  were  a  good  few  socks  lying  by  at  his 
lodgings  in  sore  need  of  repair. 

On  the  morrow  he  brought  them,  with  the  addition  of  a 
large  basket  of  "  scroff,"  or  chips,  for  firing. 

Keeper  Jim  was  much  amused  at  this  exchange  of 
civilities ;  but  was  so  far  moved  with  compassion  for 
Tuffin's  lonely  wife  that  he  contributed  a  couple  of  nice 
young  rabbits  to  the  little  packet  of  comforts  which  Betty 
sent  her  when  Dick  went  home  for  his  brief  holiday ;  and 
he  was  both  touched  and  gratified  when  little  Mrs.  Tuffin 
sent  a  return  tribute  of  new-laid  eggs  and  fresh  vegetables 
to  the  woman  who  had  befriended  her  Dick. 

Autumn  came,  scarcely  perceptible  at  first  in  this  sheltered 
spot ;  little  drifts  of  yellow  leaves  strewed  Betty's  threshold 
of  a  morning  ;  there  was  a  brave  show  of  berries  amid  the 
undergrowth ;  maple  bushes  lit  cool  fires  here  and  there ; 
and  travellers'  joy  and  biyony  flung  silver-spangled  tendrils 
or  jewelled  chains  across  a  tangle  of  orange  and  crimson 
and  brown.  The  delicate  tracery  of  twigs,  the  gnarled 
strength  of  boughs,  became  ever  more  perceptible  as  the 


IN  THE  HEART  OF  THE  GREEN  133 

leafage  thinned  ;  Jim  could  see  more  of  the  thatch  of  his 
house  as  he  tramped  homewards,  and  could  mark  through 
the  jagged  outline  of  the  naked  boughs  how  the  blue 
smoke-wreaths  blew  hither  and  thither  as  they  issued  from 
his  chimney. 

There  was  a  growing  sense  of  excitement  in  the  woods ; 
their  silence  was  often  broken  by  startled  cries  and  the 
whirring  of  great  wings.  Soon  the  glades  would  echo  to 
the  sound  of  the  beaters'  sticks;  dry  twigs  would  crack 
beneath  the  sportsmen's  feet ;  shots  would  wake  the  slum- 
bering echoes ;  and  then  a  cart  would  come  and  bear  away 
the  rigid  bodies  erstwhile  so  blithe.  Betty  almost  cried  as 
she  thought  of  the  fate  that  awaited  the  pretty  birds 
which  she  had  so  often  fed  with  her  own  hand  and  which 
the  baby  had  loved  to  watch  ;  but  Jim  chid  her  when  she 
said  she  hoped  many  of  them  would  escape. 

"Tell  'ee  what,"  he  remarked  sternly,  "if  the  gentry 
don't  find  more  pheasants  nor  in  the  wold  chap's  time 
they'll  say  I  bain't  worth  my  salt.  There,  what  be  making 
such  a  fuss  about  ?  'Tis  what  they  be  brought  up  for.  D'ye 
think  folks  'ud  want  to  be  watchin'  'em  an'  feedin'  em  an' 
lookin'  arter  'em  always  if  'twasn't  that  they  mid  get  shot 
in  the  end  ?  They  must  die  some  way,  d'ye  see ;  and  I  d' 
'low  if  ye  was  to  ax  'em,  they  pheasants  'ud  liefer  come 
rocketin'  down  wi'  a  dose  o'  lead  in  their  innards  nor  die 
natural-like  by  freezin'  or  starvin1  or  weasels  or  sich." 

Jim  grew  more  and  more  enthusiastic  as  the  time  drew 
nearer  for  the  big  shoot,  which  was,  as  he  expected,  to 
establish  his  reputation.  This  was  not  to  take  place  till 
late  in  November,  so  as  to  allow  time  for  the  trees  to  be 


134  DORSET  DEAR 

fully  denuded  of  their  leaves.  The  keeper  often  talked 
darkly  of  the  iniquities  of  certain  village  ne'er-do-weels, 
who,  according  to  him,  thought  no  more  of  snaring  a 
rabbit  than  of  lying  down  in  their  beds. 

"  If  they  only  kept  to  rabbits,"  he  added  once,  "  it 
wouldn't  be  so  bad  ;  but  when  those  chaps  gets  a  footin'  in 
these  woods  there's  no  knowin'  where  they'll  stop.  But 
they'll  find  I  ready  for  them.  They'll  find  I  bain't  so  easy 
to  deal  wi'  as  wold  Jenkins." 

"  Dear,  to  be  sure,  Jim,  I  wish  you  wouldn't  talk  so ! " 
said  Betty.  "  You  make  me  go  all  of  a  tremble !  I  shall 
be  afeard  to  stop  here  by  myself  when  you're  away  on  your 
beat  if  you  'fray  me  wi'  such  tales.  I  don't  like  to  think 
there's  poachin'  folk  about." 

"  There,  they'd  never  want  to  do  nothin'  to  a  woman," 
said  Jim  consolingly ;  "  'tis  the  game  they're  arter.  They'll' 
not  come  anigh  the  house,  bless  ye ! " 

"Well,  but  I  don't  like  to  think  they  mid  go  fightin' 
you,"  she  whimpered. 

Jim  bestowed  a  sounding  kiss  on  her  smooth  cheek. 

"  Don't  ye  fret  yoursel',"  he  cried ;  "  they'll  run  away 
fast  enough  when  they  do  see  I  comin'.  Why,  what  a 
little  foolish  'ooman  thou  be'est !  There,  give  over  cryin'. 
I  didn't  ought  to  ha'  talked  about  such  things." 

Betty's  pretty  eyes  were  still  somewhat  pink,  however, 
as  she  came  strolling  into  Dick's  quarters  that  afternoon  ; 
and  her  lip  drooped  when  in  answer  to  his  questions  she 
divulged  the  cause. 

"  Afeard  o'  poachers  ! "  exclaimed  the  woodman,  with  a 
laugh.  "  Bless  ye,  Mrs.  Whittle,  poachers  bain't  no  worse 


IN  THE  HEART  OF  THE  GREEN  135 

nor  other  folks !  Bailed  if  I  can  see  much  harm  in  a  man 
catchin'  a  rabbit  or  two  when  there's  such  a  many  of  'em 
about !  The  place  be  fair  swarmin'  wi'  'em  o'  nights.'' 

Betty  was  much  shocked  ;  and  returned  reprovingly  that 
it  couldn't  ever  be  right  to  steal.  "  And  poachin'  is  but 
stealin',"  she  summed  up  severely. 

"  Stealin' ! "  echoed  Dick  ;  "  nay,  ye'll  never  make  me 
believe  that.  I  d'  'low  the  Lard  did  make  they  little  wild 
things  for  the  poor  so  well  as  for  the  rich.  Pheasants,  now,1' 
he  continued,  ruminating, "  I  won't  say  as  any  one  has  a  right 
to  take  pheasants  except  the  man  what  owns  the  woods. 
I'd  as  soon  rob  a  hen-roost,  for  my  part,  as  go  arter  one  o' 
they  fat  tame  things  as  mid  be  chicken  for  all  the  spirit 
what's  in  'em.  I'd  never  ax  to  interfere  wi'  a  pheasant," 
he  continued  reflectively,  "  wi'out  it  was  jist  for  the  fun  o' 
the  thing.  But  settin'  a  gin  or  two — wi'  all  these  hundreds 
and  thousands  o'  rabbits  runnin'  under  a  body's  feet — ye'll 
never  make  me  think  there's  a  bit  o'  harm  in  it." 

"  Don't  let  my  husband  hear  such  talk  ! "  said  Betty 
loftily. 

The  woodman  laughed  again.  "  I  wouldn't  mind 
speakin'  out  plain  to  his  face,"  said  he.  "  Him  and  me 
is  the  best  o'  friends — I  do  like  en  very  well,"  continued 
Dick  handsomely ;  "  better  nor  I  ever  thought  to  like  a 
gamekeeper.  As  a  rule,  I  don't  hold  with  folks  what  goes 
spyin'  about,  a-tryin'  to  catch  other  folks  in  the  wrong. 
I  never  could  a-bear  a  policeman,  now — 'tis  my  belief  they 
do  more  harm  than  good." 

"  Gracious  ! "  ejaculated  the  scandalised  Betty.  "  I  don't 
know  how  you  can  go  for  to  say  such  things." 


136  DORSET  DEAR 

"  Well,  d'ye  see,  'tis  this  way,"  explained  Dick.  "  If  a 
man  do  want  for  to  get  drunk,  drunk  he'll  get  if  there 
be  farty  policemen  arter  him.  If  he's  willin'  to  make  a 
beast  of  hisself,  and  to  ruin  his  wife  and  family,  and  to 
get  out  o'  work  an'  everything,  for  the  sake  of  a  drap  o' 
drink,  'tisn't  a  policeman  that  'ull  stop  him.  And  if  a  chap 
do  want  to  fight  another  chap — his  blood  being  up,  d'ye 
see — he'll  fight  en — ah,  that  he  will !  and  give  no  thought 
at  all  to  the  chance  o'  bein'  run  in  for  it.  And  jist  same 
way — if  a  body  has  a  notion  to  trap  a  rabbit,  trap  it  he 
will,  keeper  or  no  keeper." 

Here  Dick  selected  a  sapling  and  began  to  trim  it 
leisurely,  pursing  up  his  lips  the  while  in  a  silent  whistle. 

"  I'll  not  tell  Whittle  all  you've  said,"  remarked  Betty 
with  dignity,  as  she  shifted  her  baby  from  one  arm  to  the 
other,  and  prepared  to  walk  on.  "  He  mid  think  you  was 
a  poacher  yourself." 

"  You  may  tell  him  if  you  like,"  retorted  Dick,  and  then 
he  whistled  out  loud  and  clapped  his  hands  at  the  baby, 
which  thereupon  laughed  ecstatically,  and  almost  sprang 
from  its  mother's  arms.  The  keeper's  wife  relaxed,  and 
mentally  resolved  to  make  no  allusion  to  Dick's  unorthodox 
sentiments  in  conversing  with  her  husband.  Jim  himself 
had  said  that  it  wouldn't  be  so  bad  if  folks  only  kept  to 
rabbits,  and  Dick  had  intimated  that  he  would  never  care 
to  touch  anything  else.  A  body  should  not  be  too  hard, 
she  reflected,  on  a  poor  fellow  who  had  no  home,  so  to 
speak  ;  why,  he  was  almost  like  a  wild  creature  of  the 
woods  himself,  living  out  in  all  weathers,  sleeping  often 
under  the  stars,  picking  up  a  chance  meal  as  he  best  could 


IN  THE  HEART  OF  THE  GREEN  137 

— there  was  no  great  wonder  if  he  had  become  as  lawless 
as  the  four-footed  "  varmint "  against  whom  the  keepers 
waged  such  fierce  war. 

One  evening,  shortly  before  the  great  shoot  was  to  take 
place,  Jim  came  home  to  tea  in  a  state  of  contained  excite- 
ment. When  the  meal  was  over  he  went  to  the  door,  and 
began,  to  his  wife's  surprise,  to  examine  the  fastenings 
carefully. 

"  Tis  a  good  stout  bolt,"  he  remarked,  "  and  the  lock 
be  a  new  'un.  I  d'  'low  if  house  was  shut  up  you  wouldn't 
be  afeard  to  bide  alone  in  it  ? " 

Betty  immediately  demonstrated  the  presence  of  mind 
which  she  would  be  likely  to  display  under  such  circum- 
stances by  uttering  a  loud  scream. 

"  Oh,  Jim,  Jim  !  "  she  cried,  "  why  be  goin'  to  stop  out 
all  night  ?  I  do  know  so  well  as  if  you  did  tell  me  that 
you  be  goin'  into  danger." 

"  Danger ! "  cried  the  keeper,  thumping  his  great  chest, 
"  not  much  fear  o'  that !  There,  don't  ye  be  so  foolish. 
Me  and  Stubbs  be  a-goin'  over  t'other  side  o'  the  park 
down  to  the  river  to  see  to  that  'ere  decoy  for  duck,  as 
squire  be  so  set  on  puttin'  to  rights.  'Tis  five  mile  away  ; 
we  be  like  to  be  kep'  late,  very  late — till  daybreak,  most 
like ;  but  do  you  make  the  house  fast,  old  'ooman,  and  no 
harm  'ull  come  to  either  of  us." 

Had  Betty  not  been  so  much  absorbed  in  the  main  issue, 
she  might  have  detected  something  improbable  about  the 
keeper's  story ;  but,  as  it  was,  her  fears  for  him  were  almost 
lost  in  the  horror  of  being  left  all  night  alone  in  that  deso- 
late spot. 


138  DORSET  DEAR 

Jim,  however,  jested  at  her  terrors,  and  himself  made  the 
round  of  the  cottage,  fastening  the  casements  and  securing 
the  seldom-used  front  door.  He  stood  outside  the  thresh- 
old while  she  drew  the  bolts  and  locked  the  back  one. 

"  Get  to  thy  bed  early,"  he  called  to  her.  "  Go  to  sleep 
so  fast  as  thou  can  ;  and  first  thing  thou  knows  thou'lt  hear 
me  knockin'  to  be  let  in." 

But  somebody  else  knocked  before  Betty  had  any 
thought  of  going  to  bed  ;  before,  indeed,  she  had  finished 
washing  up  the  tea-things. 

"  Who's  that  ? "  cried  she,  thrusting  a  scared  face  out  of 
the  window. 

"  It's  me,  Mrs.  Whittle — Dick  Tuffm.  I've  a-brought  ye 
back  your  hamper  what  I  promised  to  mend  for  ye.  Why, 
ye  be  shut  up  very  early,  bain't  ye  ? " 

"  Whittle's  gone  travellin'  off  a  long  way,"  she  answered 
with  a  scarcely  perceptible  sob.  "  There,  he  be  gone 
to  the  river — 'tis  a  good  five  mile  off,  he  do  say.  I'm 
frightened  to  death  here  by  myself." 

She  heard  him  laugh  in  the  darkness. 

"  How  'ud  ye  like  to  be  my  little  wife,"  he  asked,  "  as 
bides  alone  night  after  night,  wi'  nobody  but  the  little  'un, 
now  her  mother  have  a-left  her?  I  wouldn't  be  afeard, 
Mrs.  Whittle.  Your  house  be  so  safe  as  a  church ;  and 
there's  Duke — he's  big  enough  and  strong  enough  to  guard 
ye.  Hark  to  en  barkin'  now,  the  minute  he  do  hear  my 
voice ! " 

"  Well,  and  that's  true,"  agreed  Betty  in  a  more  cheerful 
tone.  "Thank  ye  for  mendin'  the  hamper,  Mr.  TufBn. 
I'll  open  the  door  in  a  minute." 


IN  THE  HEART  OF  THE  GREEN  139 

"No,  don't  ye  bother  to  do  that,"  said  Dick.  "The 
hamper  '11  take  no  harm  out  here  till  morning.  Good-night 
to  ye." 

"  Good-night,"  said  Betty,  closing  the  window. 

She  heard  the  sound  of  his  footsteps  die  away,  and  then 
the  loneliness  of  the  forest  night  seemed  to  close  in  upon 
her.  Jim  had  often  been  out  as  late  as  this,  and  later, 
but  the  mere  knowledge  that  he  did  not  intend  to  return 
till  daybreak  made  her  more  nervous  than  she  had  ever 
been.  When  the  logs  crackled  or  fell  together  she  started 
violently  ;  the  moaning  of  the  wind  in  the  branches  without 
filled  her  with  dread,  though  often,  when  she  and  her 
husband  sat  by  the  hearth,  they  had  declared  the  sound 
made  them  feel  more  snug.  More  than  once  she  opened 
the  window  and  listened ;  a  fine,  close  rain  was  falling, 
making  a  dull  patter  upon  the  thatched  roof,  dripping  from 
the  eves ;  but  besides  these  sounds  there  were  many  others, 
strange,  unaccountable,  terrifying — creakings  and  crackings 
of  boughs ;  now  what  seemed  to  be  a  stealthy  tread,  now 
whispering  voices.  She  chid  herself  for  these  fancies, 
knowing  well  that  they  must  be  without  foundation,  since 
Duke  remained  silent ;  nevertheless  her  flesh  crept  and 
the  dew  of  terror  started  to  her  brow. 

At  length,  making  a  strong  resolution,  she  went  up  to 
her  attic  bedchamber,  undressed,  and,  taking  the  child 
into  her  arms,  crept  into  bed.  But  she  lay  there  for  a 
long  time,  quaking,  and  staring  with  wide-open  eyes  into 
the  darkness  ;  until,  overcome  by  sheer  fatigue  after  a  long 
and  busy  day,  she  fell  asleep. 

She  woke  up  suddenly,  and  sat  for  a  moment  vainly 


1 40  DORSET  DEAR 

endeavouring  to  disentangle  the  confusion  of  sound  which 
filled  her  ears.  Her  heart  was  beating  like  a  drum,  the 
blood  surged  in  her  brain — a  dream-panic  was  still  upon 
her,  and  yet  there  were  certain  other  unmistakable  noises 
to  be  heard  without.  Duke  was  barking  in  frenzied  fashion 
and  straining  at  his  chain  ;  men  were  shouting  at  no  very 
great  distance,  and  now — what  was  that  ?  A  single  shot ! 

"  It's  the  poachers  !  "  exclaimed  Betty,  with  chattering 
teeth.  "  Pray  God  they  don't  come  here !  " 

In  the  midst  of  her  anguish  of  fear  she  felt  a  sudden 
rush  of  gratitude.  Jim  was  safe  out  of  the  way,  thanks 
be !  Jim  would  not  be  back  till  the  folks  had  got  off  with 
their  spoil.  But  now  Duke  was  whimpering  and  crying  in 
a  most  eerie  and  heartrending  manner,  and  presently  up- 
lifted his  voice  in  long-drawn  howls  which  jarred  upon 
Betty's  overwrought  nerves  beyond  endurance.  She 
jumped  out  of  bed  and  ran  to  the  casement.  It  had 
ceased  raining,  and  though  the  moon  rode  between  piles 
of  angry  clouds,  she  sent  forth  at  that  moment  an  extra- 
ordinarily clear  light.  Betty  could  see  the  skeleton  branches 
of  the  trees  all  wet  and  shining  as  they  tossed  against  the 
sky ;  the  little  paved  path  glimmered  white ;  yonder  stood 
a  dark  patch — Dick's  hamper.  She  could  see  Duke  pacing 
round  and  round  his  kennel,  at  the  utmost  length  of  his 
chain ;  now  sniffing  the  ground,  now  lifting  up  his  head 
for  another  howl. 

She  rapped  at  the  pane  and  called  to  him  sharply ;  and 
the  dog  looked  up  at  her  window,  and  suddenly  wheeled 
in  the  opposite  direction,  pricking  his  ears. 

Steps  were  heard  approaching — slow,  lagging  steps — 


IN  THE  HEART  OF  THE  GREEN  141 

and  presently  two  figures  came  staggering  together  out  of 
the  wood.  Betty  screamed  as  they  emerged  from  the 
shadow,  and  then  leaned  forth,  paralysed  with  dread ;  for 
as  the  two  slowly  advanced  into  the  moonlit  path  she 
recognised  Stubbs,  the  under -keeper,  and  saw  that  he  was 
supporting,  almost  carrying,  his  companion. 

"Be  that  you,  Mrs.  Whittle?"  cried  Stubbs.  "Come 
down,  Mum,  come  down  this  minute !  This  be  a  bad 
night's  work !  " 

The  man  leaning  upon  him  raised  his  head  with  an 
inarticulate  attempt  to  speak,  and  Betty  saw  that  it  was 
Jim — her  own  Jim — her  husband !  But,  oh !  what  tale 
was  that  told  by  the  drawn  features  and  glassy  eyes  ? 

She  had  screamed  at  the  unknown  terror,  but  she  uttered 
no  sound  now.  Before  they  reached  the  door  she  had 
mechanically  thrown  on  her  dress  over  her  nightgown,  and 
had  come  downstairs,  pattering  with  her  bare  feet.  She 
flung  open  the  door,  and  put  her  arms  round  her  husband, 
almost  as  if  she  grudged  him  any  support  but  hers. 

"My  poor  little  'ooman ! "  said  Jim  brokenly;  "I  d' 
'low  I'm  done  for." 

With  Stubbs'  aid  she  stretched  him  on  the  sofa,  and 
unfastened  coat  and  waistcoat.  She  drew  out  her  hand 
from  his  bosom  suddenly,  and  locked  at  it  with  a  shudder  : 
it  was  red  ! 

"Ah,  he's  got  the  whole  charge  in  en  somewhere," 
groaned  Stubbs.  "  There  was  a  lot  of  'em  out  to-night, 
and  we  catched  one  of  'em  ;  he  fought  like  a  devil,  he  did 
— 'twas  in  wrestling  wi'  him  poor  Whittle's  gun  went  off. 
Dear  to  be  sure,  'tis  awful  to  think  on.  His  own  gun  ! " 


»4*  DORSET  DEAR 

"  Where's  the  man  ? "  asked  Betty  sharply  ;  her  face  was 
as  white  as  a  sheet — her  lips  drawn  back  from  her  gleaming 
teeth. 

"  Oh,  he  made  off,  ye  mid  be  sure,"  returned  the  other. 
"  I  don't  know  who  he  was.  'Twas  in  the  thick  o'  the 
trees  yonder  we  come  on  'em.  Moon  had  gone  in  and 
'twas  as  dark  as  pitch." 

"  Do  you  think  my  husband  will  die !  "  gasped  Betty. 

"  Ah !  'tis  a  bad  job — 'tis  surely,"  responded  the  other, 
almost  whimpering ;  "  and  the  worst  on't  is  we  be  nigh  six 
mile  from  a  doctor." 

"Oh,  Mr.  Stubbs,"  cried  the  keeper's  wife  earnestly, 
"let's  do  everything  we  can,  any  way!  Will  ye  go  for 
the  doctor  for  me  ?  Do  !  I'll — I'll  give  ye  every  penny 
in  the  house  if  ye  will !  " 

"  Lard  !  my  dear  'ooman,  I  don't  want  no  pay  for  doin' 
what  I  can  at  sich  a  time.  I'll  go,  to  be  sure,  an'  make  so 
much  haste  as  I  can ;  but — won't  ye  be  afeard  to  bide 
here  all  alone — and  him  so  bad  ? " 

Betty  saw  that  he  expected  her  husband  would  die 
before  his  return,  but  she  did  not  flinch. 

"  I  will  do  anything  in  the  world  so  long  as  there's  a 
chance  of  saving  him ! "  she  cried.  "  Run,  Mr.  Stubbs, 
run  !  Make  haste — oh,  do  make  haste ! " 

Stubbs  drew  his  arm  from  beneath  the  wounded  man's 
shoulder,  and  hastened  away  without  another  word.  Betty 
went  to  her  linen-drawer,  and  found  an  old  sheet,  which 
she  tied  round  Jim's  body  to  staunch  the  bleeding ;  he 
seemed  to  have  received  the  charge  chiefly  in  his  right 


IN  THE  HEART  OF  THE  GREEN  143 

side.  He  opened  his  eyes  and  smiled  at  her  faintly,  and 
then  she  dropped  on  her  knees  beside  him. 

"Jim,"  she  whispered,  "you  never  went  away  arter  all?" 

He  shook  his  head  feebly.  "  I  meant  it  for  the  best," 
he  said  ;  "  I  heard  these  chaps  would  be  up  to  their  tricks 
to-night,  and  I  thought  me  and  Stubbs  'ud  catch  them." 

"  Oh,  Jim,"  said  Betty,  "  ye  told  me  a  lie !  " 

"  I  meant  it  for  the  best,  my  dear/'  he  returned  faintly. 
"  I  didn't  want  ye  to  be  frayed — poor  little  'ooman !  Ye 
mustn't  be  vexed.'' 

Betty  stooped  and  kissed  him,  and  he  closed  his  eyes. 

"  I  reckon  I'm  goin',"  he  said.  "  Well,  I  done  my  dooty. 
But  what  'ull  ye  do,  my  dear  ?  " 

"  I'll  manage,"  said  Betty. 

Her  voice  had  a  harsh  note  quite  unlike  its  own ;  she 
sank  down  in  a  heap  on  the  floor,  staring  before  her.  She 
knew  what  she  would  do  if  Jim  died.  She  would  first  of 
all  find  the  man  who  had  killed  him,  and  then — oh,  he 
should  pay  for  it ! 

Jim  had  fallen  into  a  kind  of  drowsy  state,  and  presently 
his  hand  slipped  down  and  unconsciously  touched  hers :  it 
was  very  cold.  Betty,  rousing  herself,  went  towards  the 
.hearth,  drawing  the  embers  together.  There  was  not 
enough  fuel,  however,  to  make  much  of  a  fire  ;  and,  softly 
opening  the  door,  she  went  out  to  the  woodshed,  her  bare 
feet  making  no  sound  on  the  damp  stones.  As  she  was 
returning  with  her  burden  the  wicket-gate  swung  open, 
and  Dick  Tuffin  come  up  the  path. 

"  Mrs.  Whittle !  Mrs.  Whittle  !  "  he  called  pantingly. 

She  turned  and  confronted  him.    The  moon  had  dipped 


144  DORSET  DEAR 

behind  the  trees  and  she  could  not  distinguish  his  face,  but 
something  in  the  aspect  of  the  man  struck  her  with  a 
lightning-like  intuition. 

"  Come  in,"  she  said  hoarsely. 

Dick  followed  her  into  the  house,  starting  back  at  sight 
of  the  prostrate  figure  on  the  couch.  Betty  dropped  her 
wood  on  the  hearth  and  came  swiftly  across  to  him  with 
her  panther-like  tread.  There  was  an  expression  on  her 
face  which  might  have  recalled  the  beast  in  question.  She 
placed  both  her  hands  upon  his  breast,  and  he,  giving  way 
before  them,  stepped  backwards  a  few  paces. 

"  Look  at  him,"  said  Betty ;  "  he  is  dying !  Dick 
Tuffin,  it  is  you  who  have  killed  my  husband  ! " 

"  I  swear  I  didn't  know  it  was  him,"  faltered  Dick. 
"  I'd  no  thought  of  harm.  I  went  out  with  the  others  for 
a  frolic.  You  yourself  did  tell  I  your  husband  was  miles 
away." 

She  had  told  him  !  He  would  make  out  that  she  had 
delivered  him  into  their  hands  !  A  red  mist  came  before 
her  eyes. 

"  Even  when  he  did  catch  I,"  went  on  Dick,  "  I  didn't 
know  who  'twas.  But  somebody  told  me  jist  now  that 
Stubbs  was  runnin'  for  the  doctor  for  en,  so  I  come — I 
couldn't  rest,  ye  see.  I  had  to  come.  Mrs.  Whittle,  I 
don't  know  what  you'll  say  to  me." 

Betty  said  nothing  at  all,  but  the  steady  pressure  of  her 
hands  upon  his  breast  increased,  and,  as  before,  Dick  re- 
coiled beneath  it.  Her  eyes  were  blazing  in  her  white 
face ;  her  dishevelled  fair  hair  fell  about  her  shoulders. 
Dick  gazed  at  her  remorsefully,  suffering  her  unresistingly 


IN  THE  HEART  OF  THE  GREEN  145 

to  push  him  the  length  of  the  little  room  and  through  an 
open  doorway.  He  imagined  her  to  be  ejecting  him  from 
the  house,  but  all  in  a  moment  she  threw  her  whole  weight 
upon  him  with  such  violence  that  he  stumbled  and  fell. 
Before  he  could  recover  he  found  the  door  closed  upon 
him  and  bolted.  He  heard  hasty  steps  in  the  inner  room 
and  the  dragging  across  the  floor  of  some  heavy  piece  of 
furniture,  which  was  presently  pushed  against  the  door. 

"  Mrs.  Whittle  !  "  he  called  out,  "  what  are  you  doing  ? 
Are  you  mad  ? " 

Then  came  Betty's  voice,  harsh  and  broken :  "  I've  got 
ye,  Dick  Tuffin  !  Ye  can't  get  out ;  there's  no  window 
and  no  other  door.  I've  got  ye  and  I  mean  to  keep  ye ! 
Ye've  killed  my  husband — ye've  made  me  a  widow  and 
my  child  an  orphan — an'  I'll  not  rest  till  I  do  the  same  by 
your  wife  and  your  child." 

And  then  something  else  came  battering  up  against  the 
door.  Dick  had  no  doubt  but  that  the  barricade  was  now 
complete.  He  felt  about  him  in  the  darkness,  identifying 
shelves,  one  or  two  small  barrels,  a  crock  :  he  was  in  the 
buttery  most  likely.  He  might  possibly  force  his  way  out ; 
the  bolt  was  in  all  probability  not  very  strong,  and  once 
the  door  was  opened  he  could  soon  do  away  with  all  other 
obstacles  ;  but  then  he  would  have  that  fierce  woman  to 
encounter.  He  could  not  escape  without  doing  her  some 
hurt,  and  the  awful  face  of  the  wounded  man  would  again 
meet  his  gaze.  Besides,  of  what  use  would  it  be  to  attempt 
to  escape  ?  He  was  well  known  in  the  place,  and  the 
police  would  soon  track  him. 

He  sat  down,  therefore,  with  the  resignation  of  despair, 

10 


146  DORSET  DEAR 

shivering  from  time  to  time,  and  straining  his  ears  for 
every  sound  in  the  next  room.  He  heard  poor  Jim  groan 
now  and  then,  and  Betty  speak  to  him  in  a  voice  of  such 
yearning  tenderness  that  it  was  scarcely  recognisable  as  the 
same  which  had  threatened  himself  a  little  while  before. 
He  thought  of  Betty  as  she  had  first  come  upon  him,  so 
young  and  gay  in  her  pink  dress,  and  with  her  yellow  hair 
glancing  in  the  sun,  and  of  the  child  which  he  had  so  often 
dandled  in  his  arms.  Widow  and  orphan !  Widow  and 
orphan  !  And  all  because  Dick  Tuffin  had  gone  out  with 
a  few  idle  chaps  for  a  night's  frolic.  And  then  he  thought 
of  his  own  little  woman  at  home  :  he  seemed  to  see  her  in 
her  "  deep  ".  And  the  little  one,  who  would  never  be  able 
to  hold  up  his  head  because  they  hanged  his  father. 

Thus  did  he  muse  very  sorrowfully  until  slumber  over- 
took him  in  that  inexplicable  fashion  with  which  it  will 
sometimes  come  upon  the  weary  and  anxious  of  heart. 
And  he  slept  until  the  grey  light  of  morning  began  to 
creep  through  the  chinks  of  the  barricaded  door. 

He  heard  voices  in  the  adjoining  room — men's  voices, 
and  Betty's ;  then  the  tread  of  feet  walking  in  unison. 
The  little  stairs  creaked  ;  the  heavy  footfalls  now  tramped 
in  the  room  overhead,  then  descended  again,  and  crossed 
the  kitchen.  Now  the  folks  were  leaving  the  house ;  he 
could  hear  them  clattering  down  the  path,  and  caught  the 
swing  of  the  gate. 

"  It's  all  over,"  he  said  to  himself,  "  they've  carried  the 
poor  chap  upstairs." 

A  sudden  numbness  came  upon  him  :  it  was  true,  then, 
and  not  a  bad  dream.  Poor  Jim  Whittle  was  dead,  and 


IN  THE  HEART  OF  THE  GREEN  147 

he,  Dick,  had  killed  him ;  and  now  Betty  would  give  him 
up  to  the  police,  and  he  would  be  tried  and  convicted  and 
hanged. 

Dick  was  not  very  learned  in  the  statutes  of  his  country, 
and  had  no  manner  of  doubt  that  since  the  keeper  had 
been  killed  in  struggling  with  him — by  his  hand,  it  might 
be  said,  for  the  gun  had  gone  off  owing  to  Dick's  en- 
deavour to  wrench  it  away — he  would  have  to  pay  the  full 
penalty  of  the  law.  To  be  twanged  by  the  neck  until  he 
was  dead.  He  put  his  hand  to  his  throat,  and  drew  a  long 
sobbing  breath. 

After  what  seemed  an  interminable  time,  he  heard  once 
more  the  sound  of  voices  in  the  kitchen — a  man's  voice 
and  Betty's — then  a  quick  firm  step  crossing  the  room  to 
the  house-door,  and  finally  the  retreating  sounds  of  a 
horse's  feet.  Then  there  was  a  scraping  and  bumping  of 
furniture  ;  the  rim  of  light  which  had  been  perceptible  but 
half-way  down  the  door  suddenly  lengthened,  the  bolt 
grated  in  its  hasps,  and  in  another  moment  Betty  stood 
before  him. 

Dick  had  been  so  long  imprisoned  in  the  darkness  that 
at  first  he  could  hardly  bear  the  flood  of  wintry  light 
which  burst  upon  him.  And  there,  in  the  midst  of  it,  was 
the  woman,  with  so  bright  a  face  that  he  could  scarce 
credit  his  eyes.  She  stretched  out  both  hands  to  him  and 
cried  : — 

"  He  be  to  live  !  Doctor  says  he  be  to  live  ! "  Her 
voice  faltered  and  broke,  the  tears  leaped  from  her  eyes. 
"  Thank  God  !  "  she  cried.  "  Oh,  thank  God  !  He'll  live ! 

My  Jim's  to  live  !  " 

10* 


148  DORSET  DEAR 

Dick  came  staggering  forth  from  his  cell.  His  brown 
face  was  blanched  to  a  sickly  pallor ;  he  trembled  in  every 
limb.  Choking  back  her  sobs,  Betty  again  extended  her 
hand  to  him,  and  he  wrung  it ;  but,  turning  from  her,  he 
leaned  against  the  wall,  hiding  his  face.  His  shoulders 
were  heaving. 

"  Doctor  says  he'll  not  die,"  pursued  Betty  betwixt 
laughing  and  crying.  "  He's  young  and  strong,  he  says, 
and  he'll  get  over  it.  '  We'll  get  as  much  lead  as  we  can 
out  of  him,'  says  doctor,  '  and  he'll  carry  the  rest  quite 
comfortable,  as  many  another  has  done  before  him.'" 

She  laughed  a  feeble,  wavering  laugh  that  ended  in  a 
sob.  "  He  said  we'd  best  get  him  upstairs  and  put  him  to 
bed,"  continued  Betty.  "  Stubbs  and  another  man  come 
up  from  the  village,  so  they  carried  him  up ;  and  doctor's 
been  with  him  a  long  time,  and  he's  sleepin'  now." 

She  told  her  tale  brokenly,  with  a  little  gasp  between 
each  word  ;  but  Dick  made  no  comment.  Presently  he 
turned  round  again,  his  face  still  working. 

"  Mrs.  Whittle,"  he  said  unsteadily,  "  I'd  like  ye  to  hear 
me  say  so  solemn  as  I  can,  as  I'll  never  lay  another  finger 
on  any  creature  in  the  woods.  I'll  never  touch  another 
feather " 

"  Oh,  it's  all  right,  it's  all  right ! "  interrupted  she  quickly. 
"  I'd  like  ye  to  hear  me  say  summat  too.  I  was  mad  last 
night,  but  I  bain't  so  hard-hearted  as  I  made  out.  Even 
if  my  Jim  had  died  I  wouldn't  never  ha' — I  wouldn't  ha' 
made  a  widow  of  your  poor  wife,  nor  yet  an  orphan  o'  the 
baby." 


THE  WOLD  STOCKIN'. 

FARMER  HUNT  stood  leaning  over  his  farmyard  gate  with 
the  reflective,  and  at  the  same  time  pleasantly  expectant, 
expression  of  the  man  who  awaits  at  any  moment  a 
summons  to  dinner.  To  him,  picking  her  steps  cautiously 
down  the  muddy  lane  which  led  to  his  premises,  came  old 
Becky  Melmouth,  her  skirts  tilted  high  and  an  empty 
basket  on  her  arm.  Farmer  Hunt  nodded  at  her  good- 
humouredly,  and  hailed  her  as  ~soon  as  she  was  within 
hearing. 

"  What ! "  cried  he.  "  Have  ye  brought  me  another  of 
'em  ? " 

"  I've  a-brought  ye  two,"  returned  Becky  triumphantly. 
"  But  maybe  you're  too  busy  to  attend  to  me  just  now," 
she  added,  with  a  glance  that  was  half  apologetic  and  half 
appealing. 

"  Oh,  I  can  spare  a  minute  for  that,"  said  the  farmer 
good-naturedly.  "  Brewery  hooter's  not  gone  yet,  and  we 
don't  have  dinner  till  one.  Step  in,  Mrs.  Melmouth." 

He  preceded  her  into  the  house,  and  led  the  way  to  a 
small  parlour,  empty  save  for  a  large  yellow  cat  which  lay 
curled  up  on  the  hearthrug.  With  a  mysterious  air  which 
assorted  with  the  cautious  glance  thrown  round  by  Becky 

as  she  closed  the  door,  he  proceeded  to  unlock  a  large  oak 

149 


ISO  DORSET  DEAR 

chest,  and  thrusting  in  his  hand,  drew  forth  a  faded 
worsted  stocking.  As  he  handed  this  to  the  old  woman 
the  contents  chinked  with  a  portentous  sound.  Mrs. 
Melmouth's  eyes  glistened,  and  her  rosy  wrinkled  face 
wreathed  itself  with  smiles,  as  she  slowly  undid  the  knot 
at  the  upper  end,  and  thrust  in  her  hand.  A  further 
chinking  sound  ensued,  and  she  looked  jubilantly  up  at 
the  farmer. 

"  There  be  a  lot  on  'em  now,"  she  remarked. 

"Ah,  sure!"  he  agreed.  "An"  you  be  bringin'  two 
shillin'  more,  you  do  say?" 

"Two  shillin'  an'  a  thruppenny  bit,"  corrected  Becky 
gleefully.  "  I  be  doin'  uncommon  well  wi'  my  eggs  an' 
chicken  jist  now." 

"  Dear  heart  alive  !  Keep  the  thruppence,  'ooman  ! " 
cried  Mr.  Hunt,  with  a  certain  amount  of  impatience.  "  It 
'ull  maybe  buy  you  a  relish  of  some  sort  as  'ull  make  ye 
fancy  your  victuals  more.  I  reckon  you  do  scrimp  too 
much." 

Becky  pursed  up  her  lips  and  shook  her  head. 

"  I'd  sooner  save  it,"  said  she.  "  Can  I  have  the  book, 
sir." 

"Ah,  sure  ye  can,"  returned  the  farmer,  and,  after 
rummaging  a  moment  in  the  chest,  he  produced  a  small 
account-book  with  a  pencil  attached  to  it  by  means  of  a 
much-worn  bit  of  string. 

Becky  meanwhile  had  been  fumbling  for  her  spectacles, 
and  having  now  assumed  them,  she  proceeded  to  enter 
the  sum  she  had  so  proudly  mentioned,  to  her  banking 
account. 


THE  WOLD  STOCKIN'  151 

"  How  much  does  that  make  ? "  she  added,  peering  up 
at  Mr.  Hunt  through  her  glasses ;  her  toothless  gums 
parted  in  a  smile  which  was  already  rapturous. 

"  Let  me  see,"  returned  he,  taking  the  book  from  her 
hand ;  "  last  time  I  reckoned  it  up  there  was  forty  pound 
in  it,  an'  you've  a-been  here  twice  since — and  again  to-day. 
You've  got  in  that  there  wold  stockin',  Mrs.  Melmouth, 
forty  pound  four  shillin'  an'  ninepence.  It  do  do  ye  credit," 
he  added  handsomely ;  "  afy  !  that  it  do.  Tisn't  many  a 
hard-workin'  body  same  as  yourself  would  put  by  half  so 
much.  Ye've  put  in  over  nine  pound  since  I  took  charge 
of  it  for  ye." 

"  An'  that's  ten  year  ago  come  Michaelmas,"  said  Becky, 
with  modest  pride.  "  But  Melmouth  an'  me  had  been 
savin'  for  thirty  year  afore  that." 

"An'  you  yourself  'ull  go  on  savin'  for  another  thirty 
year,  I  shouldn't  wonder,"  said  Mr.  Hunt,  with  a  jovial 
laugh.  "There  ye  be  so  strong  upon  your  legs  as  ever 
you  was,  an'  never  sick  nor  sorry,  be  ye  ?  " 

"  Well,  not  to  speak  on,  thanks  be,"  responded  Becky. 
"  But  I  could  feel  a  deal  easier-like  in  my  mind  if  I  could 
settle  who  it's  all  to  go  to  when  I  be  gone.  I  be  puzzled 
what  to  do — ah !  that  I  be.  Thicky  wold  stockin'  do  lay 
upon  my  heart  jist  same  as  a  lump  o'  lead." 

"  It  didn't  ought  to  be  such  a  trouble  to  ye,"  said  Mr. 
Hunt.  "Divide  it,  Mrs.  Melmouth.  Divide  it  fair  and 
square  among  your  nevvies  and  nieces." 

"  No,"  cried  Mrs.  Melmouth,  shaking  her  head  vehe- 
mently and  sucking  in  her  breath  at  the  same  time. 
"  No-o-o,  sir,  'twouldn't  never  do,  that  wouldn't.  It  must 


152  DORSET  DEAR 

go  all  in  a  lump.  Melmouth  and  me  settled  it  that  way 
years  an'  years  ago.  He'd  save  a  shillin',  d'ye  see,  an'  I'd 
scrape  together  another  to  put  to  it,  an'  so  we'd  go  on — 
for  a  rainy  day,  he'd  say — but  no  rainy  day  ever  did 
come " 

"And  what  a  good  thing  that  was,"  chimed  in  the 
farmer;  "there  isn't  many  folks  can  say  the  same." 

"  Very  like  there  hain't.  Thanks  be,  as  I  do  say,  Mester 
Hunt ;  thanks  be  for  all  mercies  !  But  there  'tis,  d'ye  see." 
Here  her  face  assumed  an  anxious  expression  and  she 
dropped  her  voice  cautiously.  "  Who's  it  to  go  to  ?  Rector 
do  tell  I,  I  ought  to  be  makin'  my  will." 

"True  enough,"  said  Mr.  Hunt  judiciously;  "so  you 
ought,  Becky,  so  you  ought." 

"  Well,  but,"  resumed  Mrs.  Melmouth,  "  who's  to  have 
it  ?  Melmouth,  he  wer'  set  on  its  going  in  a  lump.  Says 
he  often  an'  often,  '  Let  it  go  in  a  lump,  Becky,  whatever 
you  do  do.  Settle  it  as  you  do  like ' — he  did  say — '  for 
the  dibs  belongs  to  both  on  us  equal.  Let  Simon  (that's 
my  nevvy)  have  'em,  or  let  'em  go  to  Rosy ' — Rosy  be  his 
sister's  oldest  maid — '  but  don't  divide  'em,'  says  he  ;  '  let 
'em  go  in  a  lump.'" 

Here  Becky  paused,  and  the  farmer  looked  at  her  in 
silence,  scratching  his  jaw  in  a  non-committal  manner. 

"  Sometimes,"  resumed  F  ^cky,  "  it  do  seem  as  if  'twould 
be  right  to  leave  it  to  Simon,  him  bein'  a  man  an'  my  own 
flesh-an'-blood.  That  there  bit  o'  money — 'twas  me  first 
had  the  notion  o'  puttin'  it  by,  and,  as  Melmouth  did  often 
use  to  say,  there  couldn't  be  no  savin'  done  in  the  house 
wi'out  I  put  my  shoulder  to  the  wheel.  But,  there  !  Rosy 


THE  WOLD  STOCKIN'  153 

— Melmouth  was  oncommon  fond  o'  Rosy's  mother,  and  o' 
Rosy  herself  when  she  was  a  little  maid." 

"  Ah  !  you  haven't  seen  Mrs.  Tuffin  an'  her  family  since 
they  shifted  to  Sturminster  ? "  put  in  the  farmer  as  she 
paused. 

Mrs.  Melmouth  shook  her  head. 

"  I  often  wish  I  could,"  she  said  ;  "  but  'tis  so  far." 

"  An'  have  ye  seen  Simon  ? "  inquired  the  farmer.  "  He 
be  a  dairy  chap,  bain't  he  ?- — 'tis  some  time  since  he  went 
to  service." 

"  Ah  !  he've  a-got  a  very  good  place  t'other  side  o'  Dar- 
chester.  He  do  write  beautiful  letters  to  my  sister  at 
Christmas.  There,  they  be  jist  same's  as  if  they  come  out 
of  a  book." 

"  P'r'aps  they  are  out  of  a  book,"  suggested  Mr.  Hunt. 
"  There  did  use  to  be  a  book  about  letter-writin'  when  I 
was  a  young  chap ;  but  what  it  wanted  to  say  was  never 
same  as  what  I  wanted  to  say,  and  my  mother — poor  soul ! 
couldn't  spell  the  long  words,  so  I  did  give  up  using  it. 
But  since  ye  haven't  seen  either  of  these  two  young  folks 
for  so  long,  Mrs.  Melmouth,  why  not  ax  'em  both  to  come 
and  stop  wi'  ye,  an'  see  which  ye  do  like  the  best  ?  You'd 
soon  find  out  then  what  they  was  both  made  on,  an'  I'd  pick 
out  the  one  as  did  please  ye  most  to  leave  the  stockin'  to." 

"Well,  there,  that's  a  notion,"  said  Becky  reflectively. 
"  I  mid  do  that,  I  mid  very  well  do  that.  Easter  week, 
Simon  mid  very  well  get  a  holiday — an'  Rosy — I  mid  ask 
her  mother  to  spare  her  to  me  at  the  same  time." 

"  Do  !  "  said  Farmer  Hunt  encouragingly.  "  I'll  reckon 
ye'll  find  'tis  a  very  good  notion." 


154  DORSET  DEAR 

"  I  reckon  I  will — and  thank  you,  Farmer,  for  puttin'  it 
into  my  mind.  There,  I  should  never  ha'  thought  on't." 

"  Two  heads  is  better  than  one,  ye  see,"  said  Mr.  Hunt. 

And  then  he  locked  up  the  stocking  again,  handed  Mrs. 
Melmouth  her  basket,  and  betook  himself  to  his  midday 
meal  with  the  comfortable  sensation  which  follows  on  a 
good-natured  act  that  has  cost  nothing. 

Mrs.  Melmouth  left  the  house  and  trudged  homewards, 
revolving  the  new  idea  in  her  mind.  Simon  could  have 
the  back  bedroom,  and  Rosy  could  sleep  with  her  ;  'twas  a 
very  good  notion  to  have  'em  both  together  ;  a  man  always 
gave  a  deal  o'  trouble  in  a  house,  and  Rosy  could  help  a 
bit.  Not  but  what  Simon  must  make  himself  useful  too. 
His  aunt  privately  resolved  to  hold  over  the  setting  of  the 
potatoes  until  he  came ;  the  bit  o'  work  he  might  do  then 
would  go  a  good  way  towards  his  keep,  reflected  the  thrifty 
soul. 

With  much  thought  and  care  she  penned  her  invitations 
that  afternoon ;  they  were  brief  and  to  the  point,  inti- 
mating in  each  case  the  writer's  wish  to  become  better 
acquainted  with  the  young  relative  in  question. 

Rosy's  answer  came  by  return  of  post,  written  in  a 
beautiful,  round,  clear  hand  which  did  credit  to  her  school- 
ing, and  accepting  with  rapture.  Simon's  reply  did  not 
come  to  hand  for  two  or  three  days.  It  was  ill-spelt  and 
ill-written  on  a  somewhat  dirty  piece  of  ruled  paper,  which 
looked  as  if  it  had  been  torn  off  the  bottom  of  a  bill : — 

"  Dear  Ant,"  it  said,  "  i  don't  know  if  i  can  be  spaired, 
but  if  the  bos  is  willin  i  will  cum.  Yours  truly  nevew,  S. 
FRY." 


THE  WOLD  STOCKIN'  155 

His  aunt  pursed  up  her  lips  as  she  perused  this  docu- 
ment 

"  He  mid  ha'  taken  a  bit  more  pains,"  she  said  to  her- 
self ;  "  he  ha'n't  got  this  out  of  a  book,  anyhow." 

It  was  possible,  indeed,  that  even  The  Complete  Letter- 
Writer  did  not  contain  a  missive  from  a  young  man  who 
had  been  asked  to  spend  his  holidays  with  an  aunt  in  the 
country,  and  that  Simon,  in  consequence,  was  thrown  on 
his  own  resources. 

"But  he  don't  seem  so  very  anxious  to  come,"  she 
thought.  "  He  mid  ha'  said  '  Thank  ye,'  too — Rosy  did 
seem  to  be  far  more  thankful.  But  Simon — p'r'aps  he 
means  better  nor  what  he  says." 

With  this  charitable  reflection  Becky  laid  aside  the  letters 
and  went  to  feed  her  chickens. 

Rosy,  who  was  living  at  home,  and  in  consequence  not 
tied  down  to  any  particular  date,  arrived  a  day  before  the 
other  guest.  She  was  a  pretty  girl  of  the  dark-haired, 
clear-skinned  type  so  often  to  be  seen  in  Dorset ;  her  eyes 
were  brown  like  her  hair,  and  her  complexion  matched  her 
name  to  a  nicety.  The  carrier  dropped  her  and  her  tin 
box  at  the  corner  of  the  lane  which  led  to  Mrs.  Melmouth's 
cottage,  and  she  came  staggering  down  to  her  aunt's  door 
bent  in  two  beneath  the  weight  of  her  belongings.  Mrs. 
Melmouth  stood  on  the  threshold  and  watched  her. 

"  That's  right,"  she  remarked,  as  the  girl  set  down  her 
trunk  and  straightened  herself,  breathless  and  laughing, 
"  I  be  main  glad  to  see  ye.  Ye  be  sich  a  handy  maiu,  my 
dear.  There,  I  declare  ye've  just  come  in  nice  time  to  get 
the  tea." 


156  DORSET  DEAR 

Now  Rosy,  who  was  tired  and  thirsty  after  her  long 
jolting  in  the  carrier's  van,  had  half-expected  to  find  tea 
ready.  She  felt  a  little  bewildered  and  slightly  annoyed 
on  being  sent  first  to  the  well  and  then  to  the  wood-shed, 
and  then  having  to  reach  down  the  best  china  from  the 
top  shelf,  and,  moreover,  to  dust  it,  conscious  all  the  time 
of  wearing  her  best  frock  with  sleeves  too  tight  at  the  wrist 
to  turn  up  comfortably.  It  was  a  very  crestfallen  Rosy 
indeed  who  finally  sat  down  to  partake  of  that  particularly 
well-earned  cup  of  tea. 

But  Mrs.  Melmouth  was  radiant. 

"  To-morrow,"  said  she,  "  I'll  get  ye  to  make  that  there 
back  room  ready  for  my  newy." 

"  Your  nephew  ? "   echoed  Rosy,  somewhat  taken  aback. 

It  had  been  well  enough  surmised  by  the  Tuffin  family 
that  Aunt  Becky  had  a  tidy  sum  put  by,  though  they  were 
as  ignorant  of  the  precise  amount  as  of  the  receptacle  in 
which  she  had  stored  it.  The  invitation  to  Rosy  had 
awakened  certain  half-formed  hopes  in  the  girl's  own 
breast,  as  well  as  in  those  of  her  parents,  and  she  looked 
very  blank  at  the  announcement  that  a  rival  aspirant  was 
so  soon  to  come  upon  the  scene. 

"  Ah  !  "  said  Mrs.  Melmouth,  stirring  her  tea  vigorously, 
"  my  nevvy,  Simon  Fry.  He  be  comin'  to  spend  his 
hollerday  here.  That  room  'ull  want  a  good  doin'  out," 
she  continued  placidly,  "an"  there's  a  lot  o'  wold  things 
there  as  'ull  have  to  be  shifted  afore  you  can  get  to  work. 
But  ye  can  get  up  pretty  early — it'll  be  ready  time  enough, 
I  dare  say.  He'll  not  be  here  much  afore  tea-time." 

Rosy  had  formed  certain  private  plans  as  to  the  disposal 


THE  WOLD  STOCKIN'  157 

of  her  Good  Friday  ;  there  were  friends  of  her  mother's  to 
visit,  old  playmates  of  her  own  to  look  up — these,  being  of 
the  same  age  as  herself,  would  doubtless  have  some  little 
jaunt  in  view.  And  now  the  whole  day  was  to  be  spent  in 
cleaning  up  for  Simon  Fry.  Simon,  who  was  nephew  by 
blood  to  Aunt  Becky,  while  she  was  only  niece  by  marriage 
— there  could  not  be  much  doubt  as  to  who  would  prove 
the  favourite.  Rosy  felt  she  had  been  inveigled  from  her 
home  on  false  pretences  ;  it  was  not  out  of  affection  that 
Mrs.  Melmouth  had  sent  for  her,  but  simply  to  secure  her 
help  with  the  housework  and  to  make  her  wait  upon  Mr. 
Simon  Fry. 

Her  aunt  glanced  at  her  sharply  as  she  flushed  and  bit 
her  lip,  but  made  no  remark  ;  and  presently  Rosy  regained 
her  good-humour. 

For  was  it  not  the  sweetest  of  spring  evenings,  and  were 
not  the  thrushes  singing  in  the  wood  just  behind  the  cot- 
tage, and  were  there  not  primroses  in  bloom  on  either  side 
of  the  path  that  led  to  the  gate  ?  Rosy  could  see  them 
through  the  open  door  and  fancied  she  could  smell  them, 
and  the  breeze  that  lifted  her  curly  hair  from  her  brow  was 
refreshing  after  her  stuffy  drive  and  recent  labours.  She  had 
come  from  a  back  street  in  Sturminster,  where  the  air  was 
not  of  the  same  quality,  and  the  surroundings  far  less  inviting. 

"  Tis  nice  to  live  in  the  country,  aunt,"  said  she  with  a 
bright  smile. 

Next  morning  she  rose  with  the  lark,  and  being  strong 
and  capable  had  got  Mr.  Simon's  room  into  excellent  order 
before  breakfast.  As  she  made  the  bed  she  could  not 
resist  giving  a  vicious  thump  or  two  to  the  pillow. 


1 58  DORSET  DEAR 

"  Set  ye  up,  indeed,"  she  murmured.  "  Ye  may  make 
your  own  bed  arter  this,  Mr.  Dairy  Chap!" 

If  she  had  hoped  that  her  matutinal  labours  would  leave 
her  free  for  the  remainder  of  the  day  she  was  disappointed. 
Mrs.  Melmouth  gave  her  a  pressing  invitation  to  assist  her 
at  the  wash-tub,  having,  as  she  informed  her  with  an  en- 
gaging smile,  expressly  saved  up  the  dirty  linen  for  her 
that  week. 

"  To  wash  on  Good  Friday !  "  exclaimed  Rosy,  aghast. 
"  Dear,  to  be  sure,  aunt,  'tis  the  unluckiest  thing  you  can 
do." 

"  Unlucky  ?  Fiddlesticks  ! "  retorted  Mrs.  Melmouth. 
"A  good  day  for  a  good  deed — so  say  I." 

Rosy  therefore  remained  immersed  in  suds  during  the 
greater  part  of  that  day ;  and  though  at  first  she  could 
have  cried  with  vexation,  she  soon  found  herself  amused 
by  the  old  woman's  talk  ;  and  with  every  fresh  excursion 
to  the  hedge  her  spirits  went  up.  The  air  was  so  fresh,  the 
sunshine  so  bright,  the  clean,  wet  linen  smelt  quite  nice,  she 
thought,  here  in  the  country.  Then  the  hedge  itself,  with  its 
little  red  leaf-buds  gaping  here  and  there  so  as  to  show  the 
crumpled-up  baby  leaves  within — it  had  an  attraction  of 
its  own ;  and  she  could  never  be  tired  of  looking  at  the 
primroses  that  studded  the  bank  beneath. 

As  she  stood  by  the  hedge  on  one  occasion  after  having 
tastefully  disposed  the  contents  of  a  basket  on  its  prickly 
surface,  she  was  hailed  by  a  voice  from  the  road. 

"  Be  this  Widow  Melmouth's  ?  " 

The  girl  peered  over  the  hedge  at  the  speaker,  her  curly 
hair  flapping  in  the  breeze,  her  cheeks  pinker  than  ever, 


THE  WOLD  STOCKIN'  159 

partly  from  her  recent  exertions,  partly  from  excitement. 
There  stood  a  stalwart  young  countryman  in  corduroys 
and  leggings,  a  bundle  in  one  hand,  a  stout  stick  in  the 
other.  He  had  a  brown,  good-humoured  face,  with  twink- 
ling blue  eyes,  and  a  smile  that  displayed  the  most  faultless 
teeth  in  the  world. 

"  This  be  Widow  Melmouth's,  bain't  it  ? "  he  repeated, 
altering  the  form  of  his  question. 

"  It  be,"  returned  Rosy  ;  xthen  she  nodded  towards  the 
house.  "  My  aunt's  inside,"  said  she. 

Both,  from  opposite  sides  of  the  hedge,  directed  their 
steps  towards  the  gate. 

"  Your  aunt  ? "  said  the  young  man.  "  Then  we  be 
cousins,  I  suppose  ?  " 

And  thereupon  as  each  paused  beside  the  gate,  and 
before  Rosy  had  time  to  realise  his  intentions,  he  leaned 
across  and  kissed  her. 

"  How  dare  you ! "  cried  Rosy,  springing  back  and 
rubbing  her  cheek  vigorously,  while  tears  of  anger  started 
to  her  eyes.  "How  dare  you,  Mr.  Fry  ?  Cousins,  indeed  ! 
We  be  no  such  thing,  and  I'll  trouble  you  not  to  take 
liberties.  You'll  find  your  aunt  indoor." 

With  that  she  stalked  back  to  her  wash-tub. 

"  He's  come,"  she  announced  as  she  passed  Mrs.  Mel- 
mouth,  who  was  engaged  in  rinsing  out  a  few  fine  things 
in  a  crock. 

"  Who  ?  Simon  !  I'm  glad  to  hear  it.  Ye'd  best  come 
out  a  minute  and  make  acquaintance." 

"  I've  made  quite  acquaintance  enough,"  retorted  Rosy, 
plunging  her  arms  into  the  suds.  "  He's  an  impudent  chap ! " 


160  DORSET  DEAR 

"  I'll  go  warrant  you  are  a  bit  jealous,"  said  Mrs.  Mel- 
mouth,  and  with  a  chuckle  she  went  forth  to  greet  her 
guest. 

Indeed,  from  the  vety  first  it  seemed  evident  that  Rosy 
had  good  cause  for  jealousy.  Mrs.  Melmouth  seemed  never 
tired  of  commenting  on  Simon's  likeness  to  her  family, 
prefacing  her  remarks  with  the  assertion  that  she  had 
always  been  dearly  fond  of  Sister  Mary.  She  further 
observed  two  or  three  times  during  the  course  of  the  even- 
ing that  blood  was  certainly  thicker  than  water,  and  that 
a  body  should  think  o'  their  own  afore  lookin'  round  for 
other  folks.  Poor  Rosy,  hot  and  tired  after  her  exertions 
at  the  wash-tub,  took  these  hints  in  rather  evil  part ;  not, 
indeed,  that  she  was  of  a  grasping  nature,  but  that  she 
had  an  indefinable  feeling  of  having  been  unfairly  dealt  with. 

Simon,  however,  saw  nothing  amiss ;  it  was  apparent 
that  he  looked  upon  his  visit  solely  and  wholly  as  an 
"  outing,"  and  had  no  ulterior  views  as  to  his  aunt's  testa- 
mentary dispositions.  If  he  had  ever  heard  of  her  savings 
he  had  evidently  forgotten  about  them  ;  he  had  left  home 
young,  and,  except  for  the  wonderful  epistolary  effort  which 
he  sent  to  his  mother  each  Christmas,  corresponded  little 
with  his  family.  He  admired  Rosy  very  much,  and  could 
not  understand  why  she  was  so  short  in  her  speech  and 
stand-off  in  her  manner.  It  was  perhaps  her  repellent 
tone  and  evident  moodiness  which  caused  Mrs.  Melmouth 
to  lay  so  much  stress  on  Simon's  various  good  qualities. 

During  the  course  of  the  evening  young  Fry  remarked 
with  a  yawn  and  a  stretch  that  he  intended  to  have  a  good 
sleep  on  the  morrow, 


THE  WOLD  STOCKIN'  161 

"Jist  about,"  he  added  emphatically.  "Ah!  'twill  be 
summat  to  hear  clock  strikin'  and  to  turn  over  warm  an 
snug  thinkin'  I  needn't  get  up  to  drive  up  the  cows.  To- 
morrow's Saturday,  too — if  I  were  yonder  I'd  ha'  had  to 
clean  out  fifteen  pigstyes  afore  breakfast." 

"  Think  of  that ! "  said  Mrs.  Melmouth.  "  Tater-settin's 
different,  bain't  it  ?  Ye  wouldn't  mind  so  much  gettin'  up 
a  bit  early  to  set  'taters — would  ye,  Simon  ? " 

Simon's  jaw  dropped,  and  he  looked  ruefully  at  his 
relative. 

"  I  thought  I  wer'  goin'  to  have  a  real  hollerday  for 
once,"  he  said  hesitatingly.  "  There,  if  you  do  want  me 
to  do  any  little  job  for  ye  in  a  small  way  I  don't  mind 
doin'  of  it.  But  settin'  'taters  !  You've  a  goodish  bit  o' 
ground,  an'  there  is  but  the  two  days — I  did  look  to  have 
my  sleep  out  to-morrow,"  he  concluded  desperately. 

"  I  did  count  on  ye,"  persisted  Mrs.  Melmouth  mildly. 
"  Ah !  so  did  I.  Said  I  to  myself,  '  I'll  save  up  them  'taters 
'gainst  the  time  my  nevvy  do  come ' — I  says.  '  He  be  a 
good-natured  young  man,'  I  says,  'and  I  know  he  will  do 
what  I  do  ax  him.'  'Tis  beautiful  weather  for  early  risin', 
Simon,  my  dear,  and  you'll  feel  the  air  so  nice  and  fresh 
while  you're  workin'.  I'll  have  a  dew-bit  ready  for  ye. 
Ye  won't  disapp'int  me,  I'm  sure." 

"  Oh !  I'll  not  disapp'int  ye,"  returned  Simon  dolefully. 
"  I  can't  work  on  Sunday,  of  course,"  he  added,  brightening 
up  a  little.  "  That's  summat,  an'  if  I  work  real  hard  to- 
morrow I  mid  have  a  chance  o'  gettin'  off  a  bit  on  Monday. 
Where  be  the  'taters,  aunt  ?  If  we  was  to  cut  up  some  o' 
the  sets  to-night,  we'd  get  on  faster  to-morrow." 

II 


1 62  DORSET  DEAR 

"  Ah,  to  be  sure,"  agreed  his  aunt  with  alacrity.  "  I'll 
fetch  a  basket  of  'em  in  a  minute,  an'  Rosy  there  can  help 
ye.  She'll  be  busy  to-morrow  cleanin'  up  indoor ;  but 
she'll  give  you  a  hand  to-night." 

But  Rosy  now  felt  the  time  had  come  for  her  to  assert 
herself.  She  glanced  at  the  drawerful  of  stockings  which 
lay  on  the  chair  beside  her,  and  then  raised  her  eyes  to  her 
aunt's  face. 

"  I  know  nothin'  about  cuttin'  up  sets,"  said  she,  "  an'  I 
don't  fancy  sich  work.  I've  got  all  this  darnin'  to  do. 
That's  enough  for  anybody,  I  think." 

"  Oh,  very  well,"  responded  Mrs.  Melmouth  with  some 
dudgeon.  "  I'll  help  you  then,  Simon.  I'll  fetch  'taters, 
an'  then  I'll  help  you." 

When  she  returned  she  found  Simon  and  Rosy  sitting 
as  she  had  left  them,  in  absolute  silence,  Simon  drumming 
on  the  table  and  looking  dubiously  at  Rosy,  who  darned 
away  without  raising  her  eyes. 

"  There's  an  odd  stocking  here,"  she  remarked  snappishly, 
as  her  aunt  sat  down.  "  What  am  I  to  do  with  that  ? " 

Mrs.  Melmouth,  gazing  at  her  sternly,  determined 
to  profit  by  the  opportunity  her  niece  had  unconsciously 
presented  to  her,  and  to  give  her  the  lesson  she  de- 
served. 

"  That  there  stockin',"  she  said  impressively,  as  she  took 
it  from  the  heap  and  held  it  up  for  their  inspection,  "  that 
there  stockin'  is  more  vallyable  nor  it  do  look.  It  is  feller 
to  one  what's  worth  farty  pound." 

Both  exclaimed  and  stared. 

"  I've  always  kep'  it  for  that,"  resumed  Mrs.  Melmouth. 


THE  WOLD  STOCKIN'  163 

"  Tis  nigh  upon  farty  year  old — an'  the  feller  to  it  is  worth 
farty  pound.  Your  uncle  and  me  did  begin  savin'  the  very 
year  we  was  first  married,  an'  I've  a-gone  on  ever  since. 
When  Melmouth  died  there  was  over  thirty  pound  in  it. 
I  didn't  like  to  have  so  much  money  about,  livin'  here  all 
alone,  so  I  axed  Farmer  Hunt  to  take  charge  on't  for  me. 
That's  ten  year  ago.  Well,  since  then  I've  a-gone  on 
pinchin'  an'  scrapin',  a  shillin'  here,  a  sixpence  there,  till 
I've  got  together  nigh  upon  ten  pound  more." 

"  Well,  I  never  heerd  o'  such  a  thing  ! "  exclaimed  Simon 
heartily.  "  Ye  must  have  been  wonderful  clever  an'  con- 
trivin',  Aunt  Becky  ! " 

"  Ah,  I'll  take  that  much  credit  to  myself,"  replied  his 
aunt.  "  I  do  truly  think  I  was.  But  there  it  be  now,  an' 
it  be  all  to  go  in  a  lump  to  one  o'  you  two.  I  mid  as  well 
tell  you  straight  out.  'Tis  to  go  in  a  lump — Melmouth  an' 
me  settled  it  that  way.  '  We  saved  it  between  us,  an'  you 
can  leave  it,'  he  says,  '  either  to  my  niece  or  to  your  newy 
— but  it  must  go  in  a  lump.' " 

"  Well,  I'm  sure ! "  said  Simon  ;  and  then  he  looked 
dubiously  at  Rosy,  who  was  holding  her  curly  head  very 
high.  " 'Twas  very  well  said  o' the  wold  gentleman,"  he 
continued  lamely. 

"  I  couldn't  make  up  my  mind  no  ways,"  resumed  Mrs. 
Melmouth,  "  till  at  last  I  wer'  advised  to  have  you  both 
here  together  and  see  for  myself  which  I  do  like  the  best. 
So  if  you  do  have  to  make  yourselves  a  bit  obligin',  it'll 
p'r'aps  be  worth  your  while.  Ye  mid  be  sure  my  choice 
will  fall  on  the  most  obligin'." 

Rosy  smiled  disdainfully  and  returned  to  her  darning. 
II  * 


1 64  DORSET  DEAR 

It  was  easy  to  see,  she  thought,  on  whom  the  choice  would 
fall. 

Simon  eyed  her  askance,  realising  now  the  reason  of  the 
girl's  evident  aversion  to  himself,  but  he  made  no  comment 
beyond  an  occasional  ejaculation  under  his  breath.  "  Party 
pound  !  Well  now  !  I'm  sure  'twas  very  well  thought  on," 
and  the  like. 

Next  morning,  just  when  Simon's  slumbers  were  at  their 
deepest  and  sweetest,  he  was  awakened  by  an  imperative 
hammering  and  scratching  at  the  partition  which  separated 
his  room  from  that  of  Mrs.  Melmouth  ;  and  thereupon 
dutifully,  if  somewhat  reluctantly,  he  arose,  and  soon  after- 
wards found  his  way  to  the  garden. 

Early  as  it  was,  Rosy  was  already  at  work  shaking 
sundry  bits  of  carpet,  worn  almost  threadbare  and  terribly 
dusty. 

"  Let  me  give  you  a  hand,"  exclaimed  Simon  gallantly. 
"  Sich  work's  too  hard  for  a  maid." 

"  No,  thank  ye,"  returned  Rosy  sharply.  "  I  shan't  get 
much  credit  anyway  ;  but  what  I  said  I'd  do,  I'll  do,"  and 
she  gave  another  vicious  shake  to  the  ragged  carpet. 

"  I  be  pure  sorry  you  should  think  I  want  to  rob  ye  of 
any  credit,"  observed  Simon  mournfully.  "  There,  you  do 
seem  to  ha'  turned  again'  me  terrible ;  and  'tis  quite  other- 
way  wi'  me — I  did  like  'ee  from  the  first." 

"  No  thanks  to  ye,  then ! "  retorted  Rosy  ;  and,  snatching 
up  a  stick,  she  began  to  belabour  the  mat  with  so  meaning 
an  air  that  Simon  felt  as  if  the  onslaught  were  committed 
on  his  own  shoulders. 

"  I  wish  you'd  get  on  with  your  work,"  she  exclaimed 


THE  WOLD  STOCKIN'  165 

presently.    "  You're  the  favourite,  and  you'll  get  the  reward, 
but  you  mid  jist  so  well  do  summat  to  earn  it." 

"  Now  look  'ee  here,"  said  Simon,  and  his  usually  merry 
eyes  flashed  angrily ;  "  this  here  bit  o'  business  bain't  to 
my  likin'  no  ways.  What  do  I  care  for  the  wold  stockin'  ? 
I  can  earn  enough  to  keep  myself — ah,  that  I  can — an'  I 
could  keep  a  wife,  too,  if  I  wanted  one ;  an'  what's  farty 
pound  ?  The  wold  'ooman  had  best  keep  it  to  be  buried 
with." 

"  For  shame ! "  cried  Rosy.  "  'Tis  pure  ongrateful  of  ye 
to  speak  so,  and  Aunt  Becky  so  took  up  wi'  ye." 

"Well,  I  can't  help  it,"  returned  the  young  man  bluntly. 
"  The  job  bain't  to  my  likin'.  I  did  come  out  for  a  holler- 
day,  and  here  I  be  ordered  to  set  'taters — an'  what's  more, 
I  get  nothin'  but  cross  looks  and  sharp  words  what  I  don't 
deserve." 

"  I'm  sure  your  aunt  speaks  civil  enough,"  said  Rosy  in 
a  somewhat  mollified  tone. 

"  An'  so  she  mid,"  responded  he  promptly.  "  She  mid 
very  well  be  civil  when  she  do  expect  so  much.  But  there's 
others  what's  uncivil,  and  'tis  that  what  I  can't  abide.  I've 
a  good  mind,"  he  added  gloomily,  "  to  cut  an'  run — yes, 
I  have,"  he  cried  resolutely.  "  I'd  sooner  be  cleanin'  out 
pigstyes  nor  be  treated  so  unkind  as  you  do  treat  I.  But 
for  that  matter,  my  mother  'ull  be  glad  enough  to  see  I. 
I'll  step  home-along — that's  the  very  thing  I'll  do ;  I'll  step 
home-along." 

"  Oh,  but  what  will  Aunt  Becky  say  ? "  cried  Rosy  in 
alarm. 

"  Aunt  Becky  be  blowed  ! "  exclaimed  Simon  with  de- 


1 66  DORSET  DEAR 

cision.  "  Let  her  say  what  she  pleases.  I'll  leave  her  an* 
you  to  make  it  up  together.  Tis  more  nor  flesh  an'  blood 
can  stand  to  be  treated  as  you've  a-treated  I  since  I  did 
come  to  this  house." 

"  Oh,  please — please  don't  go ! "  gasped  the  girl.  "  There, 
I  really  didn't  mean — I — I — I  only  thought  my  aunt  a  bit 
unjust." 

"  Well,  and  very  like  she  was,"  said  Simon  magnani- 
mously. "  I  think  the  money  what  was  saved  out  o'  the 
man's  wage  did  ought  to  go  to  the  man's  folk.  You've 
the  best  right  to  that  there  stockin',  Miss  Rosy,  and  I'll 
not  bide  here  to  stand  in  your  light." 

This  was  heaping  coals  of  fire  on  Rosy's  pretty  head 
with  a  vengeance.  She  looked  up  in  Simon's  face  with 
a  smile,  though  there  were  tears  in  her  eyes,  and  she 
impulsively  dropped  the  carpet  and  held  out  two  little 
sunburnt  hands. 

"Oh,  please,  Mr.  Fry,"  she  said  pleadingly,  "please, 
Simon,  do  stay — do  'ee  now.  I'll — I'll — I'll  never  be  un- 
kind again ! " 

"  Is  that  a  true  promise,  my  maid  ? "  asked  Simon  very 
tenderly. 

Mrs.  Melmouth,  chancing  at  that  moment  to  emerge  from 
her  house  with  the  view  of  ascertaining  how  the  young 
folks'  labours  were  progressing,  discovered  them  standing 
in  this  most  compromising  attitude ;  Simon  clasping  both 
Rosy's  hands,  Rosy  looking  earnestly  into  his  face ;  and 
thereupon,  true  to  her  instincts,  rated  the  couple  soundly 
for  their  idleness.  In  two  minutes  Rosy  had  returned  to 
her  carpet  with  a  flaming  face,  and  Simon  was  walking 


THE  WOLD  STOCKIN'  167 

slowly  towards  the  potato-plot.  As  their  aunt,  still  full 
of  virtuous  indignation,  was  returning  to  the  house,  her 
nephew's  tones  fell  distinctly  on  her  ear : — 

"  How  would  it  be  if  I  was  to  give  you  a  hand  wi'  they 
things  first,  my  maid,  and  then  you  could  be  helping  me 
wi'  the  sets  ? " 

"  Well,  I  declare,"  commented  Mrs.  Melmouth,  stopping 
short,  "  I  believe  they've  started  coortin'.  It  do  really 
seem  like  it.  Well,  I  never !  " 

She  was  turning  about  {^preparation  for  a  fresh  outpour- 
ing of  wrath,  when  she  was  struck  by  a  sudden  idea,  and 
paused  just  as  Rosy,  with  a  nervous  glance  towards  herself, 
walked  sheepishly  up  to  Simon,  trailing  the  carpet  behind 
her. 

"  We'd  certainly  get  on  much  faster,"  she  said,  speaking 
ostensibly  to  Simon,  but  really  for  her  aunt's  benefit. 

"  I  d'  'low  ye  would,"  said  Mrs.  Melmouth ;  and  suddenly 
her  brow  cleared,  and  she  turned  once  more  to  go  indoors 
with  a  good-humoured  smile.  "  I  d'  'low  you'll  get  on  fast 
enough — wi'  the  coortin'.  But  that  'ud  be  the  best  way  o* 
settlin'  it,"  she  added  to  herself — "I'll  leave  the  wold 
stockin'  in  a  lump  to  'em  both." 


A  WOODLAND  IDYLL. 

IT  was  the  first  Monday  of  August ;  the  shops  were  shut 
in  the  little  town  of  Branston,  but  life  in  the  neighbouring 
villages  was  more  astir  than  usual,  for  the  men  were  for  the 
most  part  working  in  their  gardens  and  the  women  stood 
at  their  doorways  or  by  their  gates  to  view  the  passing 
vehicles.  These  were  not  so  numerous  after  all — one 
might  never  have  known  it  was  a  Bank  Holiday — yet 
every  now  and  then  a  brake  or  a  wagonette  laden  with 
noisy  folk  rattled  by,  leaving  a  trail  of  dust  to  mark  its 
progress  that  lingered  in  a  kind  of  cloud  about  the  hedge- 
rows long  after  it  had  passed. 

Two  miles  away  on  the  downs,  another  kind  of  haze 
caught  the  eye  of  Robert  Formby  as  he  strode  across 
them,  the  golden  glimmering  haze  which  indicates  intense 
heat ;  the  sun  had  not  yet  set,  but  its  rays  struck  the  short 
herbage  as  though  they  must  scorch  it,  and  made  the  white 
streak  of  road  which  threaded  the  undulating  tract  posi- 
tively glitter.  But  yonder  was  Oakleigh  Wood,  heavily 
green  in  its  luxuriance  of  summer  foliage.  As  Robert 
swung  along,  with  the  fierce  sunshine  beating  on  his  brown 
neck  and  hands,  he  pictured  it  to  himself :  first,  the  grove 
of  firs  with  all  its  spicy  scents  streaming  forth  at  this  hour, 
then  the  open  space  where  the  rabbits  would  presently 

168 


A  WOODLAND  IDYLL  169 

frolic,  then,  stretching  away,  the  wide  dense  coppice  of  hazel 
and  oak  and  ash.  He  thought  of  the  broad  drives  where 
the  feet  sank  deep  in  cool  lush  grass,  and  of  the  narrow 
and  more  secret  paths  between  serried  green  walls,  where 
scarce  a  single  burning  ray  might  penetrate,  though  far, 
far  away  at  the  very  end  of  a  long  vista,  a  peep  of  luminous 
sky  was  to  be  had. 

Robert  dwelt  on  it  all,  not  as  a  poet  or  an  artist  would 
have  dwelt  on  it,  revelling  Jn  its  beauty,  but  as  a  man 
thinks  of  familiar  and  undeniably  pleasant  things. 

The  young  gamekeeper  shifted  his  gun  to  the  other 
shoulder  to  ease  himself,  and  swung  his  now  disengaged 
arm,  whistling  as  he  walked.  Oakleigh  Wood  was  situated 
on  a  Dorset  down,  but  Robert  Formby  was  a  North- 
countryman.  He  had  probably  Danish  blood  in  his 
veins,  for  his  big,  loose-limbed  figure,  his  blue  eyes  and 
yellow  hair  and  beard,  would  seem  to  belong  to  the  race ; 
his  complexion,  too,  had  been  fair  but  was  now  bronzed, 
though  when,  impatient  of  the  heat,  he  threw  open  the 
collar  of  his  flannel  shirt,  the  lower  part  of  his  throat 
showed  white  as  milk. 

A  very  energetic,  sensible,  clear-headed  fellow  was 
Robert,  full  of  zeal,  and  most  laudably  anxious  to  do  his 
duty.  It  was  this  zealous  anxiety  which  brought  him  to 
Oakleigh  Wood  on  this  particular  occasion.  It  was  just 
possible  that  evil-disposed  persons  might  take  advantage 
of  the  universal  relaxation  to  trespass  in  these  coverts ;  it 
behoved  Robert  to  see  to  that,  he  conceived. 

Here  were  the  woods  at  length,  the  undulating  outlines 
of  which  had  wooed  him  from  afar  with  such  enticing  pro- 


1 70  DORSET  DEAR 

mise ;  Robert's  feet  fell  almost  noiselessly  on  a  crumbling 
carpet  of  pine-needles,  and  he  paused  a  moment  to  sniff 
the  aromatic  scent  approvingly  ;  then  he  went  on.  Now 
the  green  depths  engulfed  him  on  every  side ;  all  was 
gentle  gloom,  exquisite  undefinable  fragrance  ;  silence  the 
more  palpable  because  of  the  never-ceasing  stir  which 
seemed  to  pervade  it.  What  a  variety,  what  a  multiplicity 
of  scarcely  perceptible  noises  go  to  make  up  the  breathing 
of  the  wood  !  The  flapping  of  leaf  against  leaf,  the  sway- 
ing of  twigs,  the  rattle  of  falling  nuts  or  sticks,  the  fall- 
ing apart  of  fronds  of  moss,  the  dripping  of  tiny  drops  of 
dew  or  rain,  the  roamings  of  minute  insects — each  sound 
infinitesimal  in  itself,  yet  repeated  at  thousands  and  mil- 
lions of  points — in  this  harmony  of  life  and  motion,  com- 
bining with  but  never  subduing  the  stillness  of  the  forest, 
lies  its  magnetism. 

Sharper  sounds  break  the  all-pervading  hush  from  time 
to  time  without  disturbing  it ;  the  cooing  of  a  dove,  the 
flight  of  blackbird  or  thrush,  the  tapping  of  a  wood- 
pecker, the  croaking  of  a  frog,  the  hasty  passage  of  a 
mouse  through  dry  leaves  ;  while  the  barking  of  a  dog 
in  some  distant  village,  and  the  clanging  of  sheep-bells 
far  away  seem  nevertheless  to  form  part  of  the  mysterious 
whole. 

Robert  pushed  his  hat  to  the  back  of  his  head,  rested  his 
gun  against  a  forked  sapling  of  birch.and,  taking  out  his  pipe, 
was  proceeding  to  fill  it,  when  he  suddenly  started  and  threw 
back  his  head,  inhaling  the  air  with  a  frown.  A  certain 
acrid  penetrating  odour  was  making  its  way  towards  him, 
drowning  the  more  delicate  essences  of  the  forest  growths. 


A  WOODLAND  IDYLL  171 

"  Tis  wood  smoke ! "  said  Robert,  and  then  his  brow 
cleared.  "  Mayhap  somebody  is  burnin'  weeds  nigh  to 
this  place,"  he  said,  and  went  on  filling  his  pipe. 

But  before  lighting  it  he  once  more  raised  his  head  and 
shot  a  suspicious  glance  down  the  long  green  vista  which 
faced  him  :  a  faint  bluish  haze  seemed  to  cling  to  the 
over-arching  boughs  of  the  hazels.  It  was  not  the  mist  of 
evening,  for  it  proceeded  from  a  certain  point  about  half- 
way up  the  narrow  stretch,  and,  moreover,  as  Robert  gazed, 
little  fresh  wreaths  came  eddying  forth  to  join  the  ethereal 
cloud  afore-mentioned.  Restoring  his  pipe  to  his  pocket, 
and  catching  up  his  gun,  Robert  strode  off  in  this  direction 
as  rapidly  as  the  narrowness  of  the  path  and  the  breadth 
of  his  shoulders  would  admit  of.  He  had  indeed  to  pro- 
ceed in  a  curious  sidelong  fashion,  turning  now  the  right 
shoulder  forward,  now  the  left,  so  that  he  looked  almost  as 
if  he  were  dancing.  The  cloud  of  smoke  increased  in 
volume  as  he  advanced,  and  presently  he  could  actually 
hear  the  hissing  of  flames  and  the  crackling  and  snap- 
ping of  twigs  ;  and  now  bending  low,  and  peering  beneath 
the  interlaced  branches,  he  could  see  the  fire  itself.  A 
rather  large  beech-tree  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  massed 
saplings,  with  a  small  open  space  around  it.  In  the  centre 
of  this  space  a  fire  was  burning  briskly,  and  by  the  side  of 
the  fire  a  girl  sat  with  her  elbows  resting  on  her  knees  and 
her  chin  sunk  in  her  hands.  Her  hat  was  hung  on  one  of 
the  beech-boughs,  and  a  small  open  basket  lay  beside  her, 
from  beneath  the  raised  lid  of  which  protruded  the  brown 
spout  of  a  teapot. 

"  My  word  ! "  said  Robert  to  himself. 


172  DORSET  DEAR 

Lowering  his  head  he  made  a  dive  beneath  the  branches, 
pushing  some  aside  and  breaking  down  others  in  his 
impetuous  advance,  and  in  another  moment,  straighten- 
ing himself,  he  stood  beside  the  girl,  frowning  at  her 
sternly.  She  raised  her  head  and  looked  at  him  with 
the  action  and  something  of  the  expression  of  a  startled 
deer ;  indeed  her  full  dark  eyes  seemed  to  carry  out  the 
comparison.  She  was  a  very  pretty  girl — so  much  Robert 
saw  at  a  first  glance,  yet  the  sight  of  her  left  him  entirely 
unmollified. 

"What  are  you  doing  here?"  he  inquired  roughly. 
"  You're  trespassin' — d'ye  know  that  ?  I've  a  good  mind 
to  summons  ye ! " 

The  girl  scrambled  to  her  feet ;  she  was  slender  and  tall, 
her  clinging  pink  cotton  gown  defining  the  shapeliness  of 
her  form. 

"  I  wasn't  doin'  any  harm,"  she  returned  with  a  pout. 

Robert  strode  across  the  intervening  space,  and  kicked 
wrathfully  at  the  fire  which  was  cunningly  composed  of 
sticks  and  fir-cones. 

"Oh,  don't!"  cried  the  girl  eagerly,  "don't!  You'll 
spoil  my  'taters ! " 

"  'Taters  indeed  ! "  retorted  Robert,  but  he  drew  back 
the  great  boot  which  he  had  uplifted  for  the  second  time. 

"  Who  gave  you  leave  to  come  picnicking  up  here  ?  I 
s'pose  you're  expectin'  a  lot  more  trespassin'  folks  same  as 
yourself?" 

"  No,"  she  said,  shaking  her  head  sorrowfully.  "  I  was 
just  a-havin'  a  little  party  for  myself — I  didn't  think  no 
harm." 


A  WOODLAND  IDYLL  173 

"  A  tea-party  all  to  yourself,"  said  Formby,  and  in  spite 
of  him,  face  and  voice  relaxed,  "why,  that's  dull  work  ! " 

"  Everybody  do  seem  to  be  merry-makin'  to-day,"  she 
went  on,  with  a  little  toss  of  the  head  that  contradicted  a 
certain  quiver  in  her  voice.  "  I  thought  I'd  come  out  too, 
and  take  my  tea  here.  I  don't  hurt  nothin'.  I  d'  'low  the 
wild  things  do  know  me  quite  well.  I  often  walk  here  of 
an  evenin'  and  the  rabbits  scarce  run  out  of  my  road.  I 
do  whoot  like  the  owls  and  they  do  answer  me  back,  and 
bats  come  fly  in'  round  my  head — I  often  fancy  I  could 
catch  'em  if  I  had  a  mind  to." 

"  Do  ye  ? "  said  Robert. 

He  was  bending  down,  resting  a  hand  on  either  knee, 
and  peering  up  at  her  with  a  twinkle  in  his  eye.  She 
nodded,  and  dropping  on  her  knees  beside  the  fire  began 
to  draw  together  the  embers  with  a  crooked  stick,  and  to 
turn  over  the  potatoes. 

"  They  be  very  near  done  now,"  she  said  ;  "  this  one  be 
quite  done — will  ye  try  it  ?  " 

Sitting  back  upon  her  heels  she  held  it  out  to  him  with 
a  timid  smile.  Robert,  shaking  his  head  half-waggishly, 
half-dubiously,  took  it  from  her. 

"  'Tisn't  right,  ye  know,"  he  protested,  "  nay,  'tisn't  right. 
I  didn't  ought  to  be  encouragin'  of  ye  in  such  ways." 

"  I've  got  some  salt  here,"  cried  she,  rummaging  in  her 
basket  and  bringing  forth  a  twisted  paper  which  she  un- 
folded and  held  out,  poised  on  her  little  pink  palm. 

Robert  deliberately  sat  down,  broke  the  potato  in  two, 
and  dipped  one  of  the  smoking  halves  in  the  salt. 

"  Ye  mustn't  do  this  no  more,"  he  remarked  severely ; 


i74  DORSET  DEAR 

"nay,  I'm  not  encouragin'  of  ye,  ye  understand;  'tisn't 
allowed — this  here's  a  wamin'."  Here  he  took  a  bite  out 
of  the  potato — "  Ye  can  be  summonsed  next  time." 

The  girl  deposited  the  paper  of  salt  upon  the  ground, 
and,  extracting  another  potato  from  the  ashes,  proceeded 
to  peel  it  deftly  with  a  pocket-knife. 

"  Have  ye  got  tea  in  that  there  basket  ? "  inquired 
Robert,  still  sternly. 

"  'Tisn't  made  yet,"  she  replied,  "  but  kettle  'ull  boil  in  a 
minute."  She  pulled  the  basket  towards  her  and  unpacked 
it  with  great  rapidity. 

"  So  that's  the  kettle,  is  it  ?  "  commented  Robert,  as  a 
sooty  object  came  to  light,  partially  enveloped  in  a  news- 
paper. He  weighed  it  in  his  hand.  "  There's  nought  in  it 
— eh,  I  see  you've  got  water  in  yon  bottle.  Shall  I  fill  it  ? " 

She  nodded,  and  then  making  a  pounce  on  a  small 
bottle  of  milk,  endeavoured  to  uncork  it.  As  the  cork  did 
not  yield,  she  was  preparing  to  loosen  it  with  her  teeth 
when  Robert  interposed. 

"  Here,  hand  o'er !  What  mun  ye  go  breakin'  your 
teeth  for,"  he  inquired  gruffly ;  "  ye'll  noan  find  it  so  easy 
to  get  more  when  they're  gone — more  o'  the  same  mak'  as 
how  'tis.  They're  as  white  as  chalk — and  chalk's  easy 
broke." 

He  produced  a  large  clasp-knife,  and  selecting  a  cork- 
screw from  the  multiplicity  of  small  implements  which 
were  attached  to  it,  drew  out  the  cork  with  a  flourish. 
But  the  sight  of  the  knife,  which  had  been  a  present  from 
his  former  master,  recalled  graver  thoughts,  and  it  was  in 
a  harsh  admonitory  tone  that  he  next  spoke : — 


A  WOODLAND  IDYLL  175 

"  'Tis  all  very  well  for  once,"  he  said ;  "  this  'ere  tay- 
party  mun  be  overlooked  for  this  time,  I  reckon  ;  but  there 
mun  be  no  more  on  'em.  Do  ye  hear,  lass  ?  These  'ere 
woods  is  private,  and  Squire  doesn't  intend  no  young 
wenches  to  go  trapesin'  about  in  'em  o'  neets,  talkin'  to 
the  owls  and  that.  I  doubt  ye  don't  go  lookin'  for  bats 
and  owls  alone,"  went  on  the  keeper  in  a  tone  of  fero- 
cious banter.  "  I  doubt  some  young  chap " 

"  Oh,  don't ! "  interrupted  she,  flushing  fiery  red,  "  I  can't 
bear  it ! " 

And  to  his  surprise  and  distress  she  burst  into 
tears. 

"  Eh,  don't  ye  cry,  my  lass ! "  he  exclaimed  with  deep 
concern.  "  Whatever  have  I  said  to  hurt  ye  ?  I  ax  your 
pardon.  I  meant  no  harm — no  harm  at  all.  Give  over, 
there's  a  good  lass." 

The  girl  sobbed  on,  with  averted  face.  Robert  looked 
distractedly  round,  and  his  glance  fell  upon  the  kettle 
which  was  boiling  cheerfully. 

"  She'd  like  her  tea,"  he  said,  confidentially  addressing 
this  kettle — "a  sup  o'  tea  'ull  put  her  to  rights.  Come 
we'll  make  it  in  a  minute." 

He  reached  for  the  teapot,  rinsed  it,  dropped  the  contents 
of  another  little  twisted  paper  into  it,  and  poured  in  the 
boiling  water. 

"Don't  fill  it  quite  full,"  said  the  girl,  turning  sharply 
round,  and  displaying  a  tear-stained  face  which  was 
nevertheless  alight  with  interest. 

"  Oh,  mustn't  I  fill  it  ?  I  always  fill  mine  right  up  to 
the  brim." 


176  DORSET  DEAR 

"  Have  you  got  nobody  to  do  for  you  then  ?  " 

"  Nay,  I'm  a  single  man.  I  have  lodgin's  over  yonder, 
but  I  do  for  myself  mostly." 

He  paused  looking  at  the  girl  curiously.  "  You  never 
told  me  your  name,"  he  said. 

"  You  did  never  ax  me,"  she  said  with  a  dawning  smile. 
"  My  name's  Rebecca  Masters.  I  live  down  there,  just  at 
the  foot  of  the  hill,  wi'  my  grandmother." 

"  Father  and  mother  livin'  ? "  inquired  Formby. 

"  No,  they  died  when  I  was  quite  a  little  thing." 

"  My  father's  livin'  right  enough,"  he  volunteered.  "  He's 
a  fine  old  chap,  my  father  is." 

"  You're  Keeper  Formby,  bain't  ye  ? "  inquired  Rebecca 
with  interest. 

"  Eh !  ye  know  me,  do  ye  ?  A  good  few  folks  do,  I 
doubt."  Here  Robert  drew  himself  up ;  he  felt  what  was 
due  to  himself  as  a  public  character  and  once  more  his 
voice  took  a  graver  inflection.  "  Now,  see  you,  my  lass, 
you  mustn't  coom  here  again." 

"I'm  to  have  nothin',  an'  to  do  nothin',"  broke  out 
Rebecca  passionately.  "Tis  the  only  thing  I  care  for, 
comin'  here  where  I  did  use  to  walk  when — \vhen  I  was 
happy." 

Robert  paused  with  a  potato  midway  to  his  mouth. 

"Is  he  dead?"  he  inquired  in  a  tone  of  respectful 
sympathy. 

"Who?" 

"  Your  young  man." 

"  No,"  she  returned  sharply,  adding  unwillingly,  as  if  in 
response  to  his  expectant  gaze,  "  he's  gone  away." 


A  WOODLAND  IDYLL  177 

Robert  pulled  thoughtfully  at  his  yellow  beard,  his  blue 
eyes  looking  very  kind  and  sympathetic  the  while. 

"  PVaps  he'll  coom  back,"  he  hazarded  after  a  moment. 

"  No,  no,  never ! "  she  cried  brokenly ;  then  in  a  curiously 
hard  voice  and  with  a  sudden  flash  in  her  eyes — "  What 
do  I  care  if  he  does  ?  He's  nothin'  to  me  now — nothin'. 
He's  gone  an'  left  me  wi'out  so  much  as  a  word — just  took 
an'  walked  off.  And  he've  never  wrote  either — not  so 
much  as  a  word.  He  mid  be  dead  only  I  do  know  he 
bain't." 

Formby  continued  to  contemplate  her,  still  stroking  that 
fine  yellow  beard  of  his. 

"  Poor  lass  !  poor  lass  ! "  he  said  at  last.  "  And  'tis  a 
comfort  to  you,  is  it,  to  coom  walkin'  here?  Well,  see 
you,  my  dear,  you  can  coom  here  as  often  as  ye  like  about 
this  time.  I'm  pretty  often  here  mysel'  then,  and  'twouldn't 
be  same  thing  as  if  you  was  trespassin'.  Ye  mustn't  bring 
no  young  chaps  here,  though,"  he  added  after  a  pause.  "  I 
doubt  they'll  want  to  come,  however  little  you  might  want 
them.  You're  a  bonny  lass — as  bonny  a  lass  as  ever  I  see 
in  all  my  days  ! " 

She  heaved  an  impatient  sigh. 

"  I  did  tell  'ee  plain  as  I  don't  want  nobody,"  she  cried. 
"  Much  good  it  do  do  me  to  be  nice  when " 

"  Is  there  no  other  man  at  all  i'  th'  world  ? "  inquired 
Robert. 

"  Not  for  me,"  returned  Rebecca. 

Kneeling  up,  she  began  hastily  to  collect  the  tea-things, 
and  Robert,  leaning  forward,  pushed  them  towards  her 

with  willing  clumsy  hands.     Then  he  rose  to  his  feet. 

12 


178  DORSET  DKAR 

"  I'm  fain  to  hear  ye  say  there's  no  other  man,  my 
wench,"  he  said,  "  but  p'r'aps  somebody  'ull  coom." 

"What  d'ye  mean?" 

"  Somebody  'ull  begin  coortin'  ye  afore  long,"  he 
returned  with  conviction  ;  "  it  might  just  as  well  be  me  as 
another.  If  there's  nobody  else,  why  not  me  ? " 

Rebecca  now  rose  to  her  feet. 

"  I  don't  want  anybody,"  she  said. 

"  Somebody  'ull  coom,"  reiterated  Robert,  "  an'  why  not 
me  ?  Coom,  my  lass,  I  ax  ye  straight.  Will  ye  give  me 
the  first  chance  ?  Honest  now !  I  like  ye  very  well,  an'  I 
doubt  I'll  soon  like  ye  better.  Tisn't  in  nature  as  a  lass 
same  as  you  can  be  for  ever  thinkin'  of  a  chap  as  has 
showed  no  more  feelin'  nor  your  chap  has.  Ye  must  tak 
another  soon  or  late.  Tak'  me — ye'll  not  rue  it." 

"  I  can't  settle  to  do  such  a  thing  all  in  a  hurry,"  cried 
Rebecca  petulantly.  "  I've  never  set  eyes  on  you  before." 

"  Nor  me  on  you,"  returned  Robert,  "  but  I  feel  as  if  I 
could  like  ye  very  well.  Give  me  first  chance — I  don't  ax 
for  nought  else.  Let's  walk  a  bit  an'  see  how  we  get  on ; 
but  you  must  give  me  your  word  not  to  take  up  wi'  nobody 
else  while  I'm  on  trial." 

"  Oh,  I  can  do  that,"  said  she,  and  suddenly  began  to 
laugh.  The  little  white  teeth  which  had  already  called 
forth  Robert's  admiration,  showed  bewitchingly ;  a  dimple 
peeped  out  near  the  lip,  another  in  the  chin. 

Robert  gazed  at  her  rapturously.  "  I  like  ye  very  well. 
Eh,  my  word,  that  I  do !  'Tis  a  bargain — a  proper 
bargain  ! " 

He  had  possessed  himself  of  one  of  her  little  sunburnt 


A  WOODLAND  IDYLL  179 

hands,  and  was  shaking  it  up  and  down ;  as  she  laughed 
on,  he  drew  her  to  him  suddenly ;  but  at  that  she  started 
back,  striking  out  at  him  like  a  little  wild  cat. 

"  None  of  that,"  she  cried,  "  I'll  never  ha'  nothin'  to  say 
to  ye,  if  you  do  try  to  do  things  like  that." 

"  Eh,  I  ax  your  pardon,"  faltered  Robert,  much  abashed. 
"  I  didn't  mean  no  harm,  my  dear — 'tisn't  reckoned  no 
harm  at  all  up  i'  th'  North  when  folks  begins  coortin'. 
You  did  look  so  bonny — an*  I  just  reckoned  'twould  give 
us  a  good  start  like." 

"  I  won't  have  it  then  ! "  she  broke  out  violently. 

She  stooped  over  her  basket,  packing  away  the  remainder 
of  the  tea-things  with  a  certain  amount  of  unnecessary 
clatter.  Robert,  whose  proffered  help  was  curtly  declined, 
stood  by  dejectedly  till  she  had  concluded,  when,  snatch- 
ing up  the  basket,  she  darted  suddenly  from  his  side,  and 
bending  her  head  rushed  into  the  track.  He  immediately 
followed  her,  carrying  her  hat  which  she  had  left  suspended 
on  the  branch. 

"  You're  forgettin'  this,"  he  began  diffidently.  "  Now 
then,  lass,  coom  !  This  didn't  ought  to  make  no  difference. 
Will  ye  gie  me  a  straight  answer  ?  " 

Rebecca  had  deposited  her  basket  on  the  ground  and 
was  putting  on  her  hat  with  trembling  fingers. 

"  I'll  think  of  it,"  she  stammered.  "  You  must  be 
respectful  though." 

A  dark  flush  overspread  Robert's  face. 

"  I  didn't  mean  nought  but  what  was  respectful,"  he 
said,  "  and  ye've  no  need  to  think  so  much  as  that  cooms 

to.     It  must  be  Yes  or  No,     I  could  never  bear  shilly- 

12  * 


i8o  DORSET  DEAR 

shally  work.  Yes  or  No — take  me  or  leave  me — on  trial 
of  course.  I  only  ax  to  be  took  on  trial." 

"  Well,  then,  I  will,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice.  "  I  d'  'low 
you  are  a  good  man,  and  as  you  do  say  I — I  can't  always 
be  so  lonesome." 

She  paused  a  moment  with  downcast  eyes ;  then,  taking 
up  her  basket  again,  turned  away. 

Robert  stood  stock  still,  watching  her  receding  figure  as 
it  flitted  away  down  the  long  alley.  The  sun  had  now 
set,  and  the  woods  were  enveloped  in  even  deeper  mystery 
than  that  which  had  possessed  them  a  little  while  ago ; 
leafage  and  branch  were  inextricably  mingled  ;  yonder  tiny 
object  in  the  path  might  either  be  a  rabbit  or  a  stump ; 
but  Rebecca's  light  dress  defined  her  flying  figure  amid 
the  gloom  which  otherwise  would  have  engulfed  her. 
Her  shape  showed  white  at  first,  then  grey,  as  it  receded 
farther,  until  at  last  it  stood  out  for  a  moment  almost 
black  against  the  still  glowing  peep  of  sky  which  showed 
between  the  over-arching  boughs  at  the  farther  end  ;  then 
it  vanished  altogether.  Even  then  Robert  remained 
gazing  after  her,  and  at  length  he  heaved  a  deep  sigh. 

"  Yon  chap,"  he  said,  "  him  as  was  her  sweetheart — I 
wonder  if  she  was  so  stand-off  wi'  him." 

The  query  seemed  to  open  up  an  unpleasant  train  of 
thought ;  he  struck  at  the  sod  with  the  heel  of  his  heavy 
boot  and  frowned.  "  I'd  ha'  summat  to  say  to  him  if  ever 
I  corned  across  him,"  he  muttered ;  and  then  turned  to 
continue  on  his  beat. 

"  I  never  see  a  bonnier  lass,"  he  said  presently  in  a  softer 
tone ;  "  poor  lass — how  pitiful  she  looked  at  me ;  I  could 


A  WOODLAND  IDYLL  181 

do  wi'  her  very  well — 'tis  to  be  hoped  as  she'll  mak'  up  her 
mind  to  do  wi'  me." 

A  bat  twinkled  round  his  head  as  he  emerged  into  the 
open,  a  host  of  rabbits  scurried  away  at  his  heavy  footfall. 

"  And  all  they  dumb  things  love  her,"  meditated  Robert. 
"  Tis  along  of  her  bein'  so  innocent-like !  Eh,  she's  a 
flower." 

Soon  he,  too,  had  left  the  woods  behind,  and  was  march- 
ing across  the  solitary  down,  grey  at  this  hour  save  on  the 
upper  slopes,  where  the  short  grass  still  caught  some  faint 
remnant  of  the  rosy  after-glow.  Night  creatures  were 
stirring  in  every  thicket  that  he  passed,  and  as  the  dull 
thud  of  his  step  fell  upon  the  resonant  ground  it  caused  a 
flutter  and  commotion  amid  the  drowsy  children  of  the 
day,  which  had  taken  shelter  there,  deeming  themselves 
secure  from  disturbance.  A  rustle  of  wings,  a  patter  of 
tiny  feet,  a  sleepy  twitter,  the  shriek  of  a  blackbird,  the 
heavy  beat  of  a  startled  pigeon's  wings  as  it  darted  blindly 
from  its  ambush — Robert  held  on  his  way  without  noticing 
any  of  these  things,  and  presently  darkness  and  liberty 
reigned  undisturbed  in  the  many-peopled  waste. 

For  many  subsequent  evenings  he  visited  Oakleigh 
Wood  at  the  specified  time,  but,  though  he  patrolled  it 
from  end  to  end,  and  strained  his  eyes  in  vain  for  a  glimpse 
of  Rebecca  Masters,  not  so  much  as  a  flutter  of  her  skirts 
rewarded  his  patient  gaze. 

Then,  one  day  he  suddenly  heard  an  unwonted  noise 
proceed  from  a  corner  of  the  copse.  An  owl  was  hooting 
intermittently  ;  every  now  and  then  there  came  a  pause, 
and  then  the  cry  would  be  sent  forth  again.  Now,  though 


1 82  DORSET  DEAR 

the  bats  had  been  circling  about  for  some  time,  it  was  as 
yet  a  little  early  for  an  owl  to  be  abroad  ;  and,  struck  by  a 
sudden  thought,  Robert  set  off  running  in  the  direction 
whence  the  sound  proceeded,  imitating  the  call  to  the  best 
of  his  ability.  As  he  expected,  he  found  Rebecca  standing 
with  her  hands  curved  round  her  mouth,  sending  forth  the 
eerie  cry.  Her  back  was  towards  him,  and  it  was  not 
until  the  ground  vibrated  beneath  his  rapid  advance,  that 
she  perceived  his  advent. 

"  Dear,  to  be  sure,  how  you  did  frighten  me  !  "  she  cried, 
turning  round  with  a  little  spring  of  terror. 

"  Did  I  ? "  said  he.  "  You  know  you  told  me  you  often 
hooted  to  the  owls  and  they  answered  ye  back.  I  thought 
Pd  answer  ye — I  thought  I'd  coom." 

She  did  not  speak,  though  he  stood  towering  over  her 
expectantly. 

"  Now  I'm  here  must  I  bide  ? "  he  inquired. 

"  E-es,  if  you've  a  mind  to." 

He  thrust  his  hands  into  his  pocket  and  drew  out  a 
cluster  of  half-ripened  nuts. 

"  Ye  can  bite  into  'em,"  he  said  ;  "  they'll  not  hurt  your 
teeth." 

Then  he  dived  into  his  other  pocket  and  held  something 
towards  her  cautiously ;  curled  up  in  his  brown  palm  was 
a  very  small  dormouse,  sound  asleep. 

"  'Tis  for  you,"  he  remarked  briefly,  "  I've  been  carrying 
it  about  three  days  and  more,  knowin'  as  you'd  a  likin'  for 
such  things.  'Tis  a  mercy  I've  lit  on  ye  at  last,  else  it  'ud 
maybe  be  dead." 

This  was  Robert  Formby's  mode  of  courting.     It  ap- 


A  WOODLAND  IDYLL  183 

peared  to  be  successful,  for  Rebecca  looked  up  at  him  with 
a  bright  smile. 

"Tis  real  good  o'  ye,"  she  said.  "There,  I  think  it 
awful  kind." 

"  I've  got  some  shells  at  home,"  he  went  on,  brightening 
up  amazingly.  "  Do  ye  like  shells  ? " 

"  Sea-shells  ? "  she  inquired. 

"  Ah !  little  shells  as  lays  upo'  the  beach  when  tide  goes 
down.  I  picked  up  a  two-three  handfuls  when  I  wer'  last 
at  home." 

Rebecca  looked  up  from  the  dormouse,  which  she  had 
been  breathing  upon  to  warm  it,  as  it  lay  curled  in  her 
hand.  "Is  your  home  near  the  sea  then  ? " 

"  Aye — right  among  the  sand-hills.  I  used  to  hear  tide 
come  roarin'  in  last  thing  o'  nights  and  first  thing  o'  morns 
when  I  were  a  lad.  My  mother  used  to  send  me  out  to 
fetch  in  drift  for  our  fire — there's  always  a  lot  o'  wood  an' 
chips  an'  straw  an'  stuff  washed  up  upon  the  shore,  an'  I 
used  to  fill  a  basket  in  no  time.  Eh,  in  winter  it  used  to 
be  nippin'  cold !  Many  a  time  I'd  find  my  sticks  all 
froze  together.  'Tis  pretty  nigh  always  sharp  up  yonder  ; 
always  a  wind  blowin'  fresh  and  free  and  salty  on  your 
mouth." 

"  Be  it  a  nice  place  ? " 

"Well,  I  think  it  bonny — not  same  as  this  is  bonny, 
though.  There's  sand-hills  runnin'  all  along  the  shore, 
some  big  and  some  little,  wi'  star-grass  growin'  over  'em. 
An'  t'other  side  o'  the  hills  there's  the  plain  country — fields 
an'  that.  Soil's  light,  but  crops  does  wonderful  well,  an' 
there's  woods,  and  little  dykes  an'  pits  nigh  to  the  woods — 


1 84  DORSET  DEAR 

eh,  many's  the  big  snig  I've  catched  ! " — he  paused,  rubbing 
his  hand  with  retrospective  relish — "  but  'tisn't  not  to  say 
bonny  same  as  'tis  about  here,"  he  concluded. 

"  There,  it  do  seem  strange  as  I've  never  so  much  as  had 
a  sight  o'  the  sea,"  said  Rebecca.  "  They  d'  say  there's  a 
good  view  o'  Poole  Harbour  from  Bulbarrow,  but  I've 
never  been  there." 

"  Happen  I  might  take  ye  there  some  day,"  suggested 
Robert.  "  Bulbarrow  !  that's  not  so  far." 

A  certain  startled  look  in  the  girl's  eyes  warned  him 
that  he  was  going  too  fast  and  he  hastily  changed  the 
subject,  embarking  on  a  somewhat  incoherent  account  of 
his  childish  adventures  among  the  sand-hills.  He  went  on 
to  describe  the  dunes  themselves  more  minutely,  and  then 
the  river  which  ran  along  the  shore  so  sluggishly  that, 
however  blue  and  clear  the  distant  sea  might  be,  the  waves 
that  broke  upon  the  beach  were  always  brown  and  muddy. 

"  That's  not  nice,"  said  Rebecca. 

"  Nay,"  acquiesced  Robert  unwillingly  ;  "  nay,  I  suppose 
not,  but  I  liked  it  well  enough." 

"  Better  than  this  ?  "  asked  the  girl  quickly. 

The  man's  sea-blue  eyes  looked  straight  into  her  face. 

"  Not  now,"  he  said. 

Next  day  when  he  came  to  Oakleigh  Wood  at  the 
usual  hour  he  made  straight  for  the  spot  where  he  had 
heard  the  fictitious  owl-hooting  on  the  previous  evening  ; 
and  his  heart  leaped  high  when  a  repetition  of  the  sound 
fell  upon  his  ear.  A  few  of  his  rapid  strides  brought  him 
to  the  spot :  Rebecca  was  standing  beneath  the  beech 
tree,  as  before,  but  so  as  to  face  the  path,  and  as  he  ap- 


A  WOODLAND  IDYLL  185 

preached  she  dropped  her  hand  by  her  side  with  a  little 
laugh. 

"  I  knowed  it  was  you,"  said  Robert  breathlessly. 

"  I  did  it  a-purpose,"  said  she. 

His  face  lit  up  with  tender  triumph.  It  was  as  though 
some  timid  creature  of  the  woods  had  been  coaxed  within 
reach  of  a  friendly  hand  ;  its  shyness  was  vanishing,  but 
dared  he  as  yet  take  hold  ? 

He  asked  himself  this  question  many  times  during  their 
subsequent  meetings ;  the  girl  would  prattle  to  him  confi- 
dently enough,  and  seemed  interested  in  all  his  doings,  past 
and  present,  but  an  impenetrable  reserve  took  possession 
of  her  whenever  he  tried  to  speak  about  herself,  and  once 
when  he  offered  to  accompany  her  home,  she  curtly  refused. 

"  Folks  'ud  get  talkin',"  she  said. 

Midway  in  September,  Robert  thought  it  time  to  put 
matters  on  a  more  business-like  footing.  With  every  day 
that  passed  he  had  fallen  more  deeply  in  love,  and  it 
seemed  to  him  only  right  that  their  intercourse  should  be 
recognised  as  courtship  proper — the  necessary  preliminary 
to  matrimony. 

He  approached  the  trysting-place  with  a  serious  face 
therefore,  and,  as  was  his  way,  came  to  the  point  at 
once. 

"We've  been  walkin'  nigh  upon  seven  week  now,"  he 
remarked.  "  Do  ye  think  ye  can  do  wi'  me,  lass  ? " 

Rebecca  turned  sharply  towards  him  with  that  frightened 
look  in  her  eyes  which  he  had  learned  to  accept  as  a  warn- 
ing. This  time,  however,  he  was  not  to  be  deterred  from 
his  purpose,  and  went  on,  very  gently  but  steadily : — 


1 86  DORSET  DEAR 

"  Ye  took  me  on  trial,  ye  know.    Will  I  do,  think  you  ?  " 

"  Do  for  what  ? "  she  faltered. 

"  For  a  husband,  my  dear.  Ye've  no  need  to  be  scared. 
I  don't  want  to  hurry  ye,  but  I  think  'tis  time  to  put 
the  question  straight.  I've  been  coortin'  you  reg'lar. 
Coom,  will  ye  wed  me  ? " 

"  Oh,  no,"  cried  Rebecca,  darting  suddenly  away  from 
him,  "  no,  no,  never !  I  don't  want  to  get  married — I  don't 
— I  never  said  I  would." 

Robert  followed  her  and  took  her  gently  by  the  shoulders. 

"  There  !  No  need  to  be  so  scared,  my  wench.  Nobody 
'ull  force  ye — don't  think  it.  I  did  but  ax — but  we'll  say 
no  more  about  it — not  for  a  bit,  till  ye  get  more  used  to 
the  notion.  I'm  content  to  bide  as  we  are.  There  now  ! 
Give  over  tremblin'.  I'll  not  hurt  ye.  See,  you're  as  free 
as  the  birds." 

He  removed  his  hands  from  her  shoulders  and  smiled  : 
this  woodland  thing  was  only  half-tamed  after  all ;  he 
must  be  patient  with  it  still,  but  he  dreamed  of  the  time 
when  it  would  come  at  his  call  and  nestle  in  his  breast. 

Autumn  advanced  rapidly  that  year — a  golden  luxuriant 
autumn,  ablaze  with  colour  and  lavish  with  fruit..  The 
thorn-trees  upon  the  downs  were  laden  with  berries,  the 
bryony  flung  long  graceful  tendrils  from  side  to  side  of  the 
thickets,  chains  of  transparent  gold,  bearing  here  a  beryl, 
and  there  a  topaz,  and  there  a  coral  bead.  The  blackberry 
brambles  displayed  their  wealth  in  more  wholesale  fashion, 
for  their  clusters  were  now  entirely  black  and  now  red. 
The  days  were  still  hot  enough  to  cause  Robert  to  throw 
open  coat  and  shirt  collar  when  he  crossed  the  down,  but 


A  WOODLAND  IDYLL  187 

the  nights  were  cold  ;  a  thick  dew  coated  the  grass,  almost 
a  white  frost.  In  the  secret  recesses  of  the  copse,  where 
the  sun  scarcely  penetrated,  lay  silvery  patches  by  day  as 
well  as  by  night. 

One  afternoon  Robert  came  gaily  to  the  accustomed 
meeting-place,  but  found  no  one  there. 

"  I'm  a  bit  early,"  he  said  to  himself;  "  I'll  have  a  look 
round  and  then  come  back.  I  think  she'll  wait — ah,  I 
reckon  she'd  wait  a  bit  for^me  now.  She's  gettin'  used  to 
me.  I  reckon  she's  gettin'  to  take  to  me." 

Smiling  to  himself  he  left  the  wider  track  and  turned 
aside  into  one  of  the  narrower  alleys  before  described. 
The  leaves  were  yellowing  here  on  either  side;  and  the  grass 
beneath  his  feet  was  covered  with  thick  rime.  As  he  edged 
himself  along  it,  lost  in  meditation,  he  suddenly  stopped 
short,  gazing  fixedly  at  the  ground.  Its  hoary  surface 
bore  traces  of  recent  footsteps  :  a  man's  footsteps — and  a 
woman's.  They  stared  up  at  Robert  as  it  seemed  to  him, 
and  all  at  once,  though  he  had  been  glowing  with  health 
and  happiness  a  moment  before,  he  fell  a-shivering. 

He  knew  the  little  foot  that  made  those  tracks — only 
the  week  before  he  had  laughed  admiringly  as  he  had 
marked  its  impression  in  the  dew.  A  little  foot — and  a 
great  one  side  by  side  with  it.  A  man's  foot !  How 
close  they  must  have  walked  there  in  the  narrow  path  ! 

Robert's  shivering  fit  ended  as  suddenly  as  it  had  begun, 
and  the  blood  coursed  madly  through  his  veins — hot  enough 
now — boiling  hot.  His  fingers  closed  tightly  round  his 
gun  and  he  rushed  forward,  brushing  aside  the  close-grow- 
ing branches,  on,  on,  never  stopping,  yet  keeping  his  eyes 


1 88  DORSET  DEAR 

fixed  all  the  time  upon  those  tell-tale  tracks.  Now  they 
were  lost  in  one  another,  now  they  were  interlaced,  now 
quite  distinct  and  separate,  side  by  side.  He  stopped 
short  when  he  came  to  the  junction  of  the  path  with  the 
wider  one  in  which  it  merged,  a  path  which  traversed  the 
wood  from  end  to  end.  Robert  cast  a  hasty  glance  to 
left  and  to  right  and  stood  transfixed.  Yonder  where  the 
green  roadway  abutted  on  the  down  he  saw  two  figures 
standing  out  dark  against  the  lambent  evening  sky — a  tall 
and  slender  woman,  a  taller  man.  As  he  gazed  transfixed 
he  saw  the  man  stoop  and  gather  the  woman  in  his  arms ; 
and  then  the  two  parted,  the  man  walking  away  across 
the  grass,  the  woman  turning  to  the  right  and  disappearing 
into  the  wood. 

"  She's  comin'  to  our  beech-tree,"  said  Robert  to  himself ; 
"  she's  comin'  to  meet  me."  \ 

And  for  the  moment  he  saw  the  world  red. 

He  too  turned  and  began  to  stride  fiercely  towards  the 
trysting-place.  As  he  entered  the  wider  track  he  stopped 
and  looked  to  his  gun.  But  one  barrel  was  loaded.  He 
twisted  round  his  cartridge  bag,  and  with  impatient,  trem- 
bling fingers  found  the  cartridge  for  the  other  barrel. 

He  reached  the  beech-tree  first  and  stood  gripping  his  gun 
tight  and  glaring  up  the  path,  still  through  that  red  haze. 

All  at  once  he  saw  her  coming,  very  slowly,  with  her 
head  bent. 

Half-hidden  by  the  tree-trunk  he  waited,  motionless  as 
a  statue,  for  her  to  give  the  accustomed  signal ;  at  the  first 
sound  of  it  he  would  shoot  her  through  the  heart. 

She  came  quite  near,  raised  her  head,  and  sighed. 


A  WOODLAND  IDYLL  189 

Then  the  keeper  made  a  step  towards  her  ;  his  grip  on 
the  gun  relaxed. 

"  You  here  already  ? "  she  asked,  and  turning  towards 
him  laid  her  little  hands  upon  his  breast.  It  was  the 
first  time  she  had  ever  voluntarily  touched  him,  and  the 
man  started  and  flushed. 

"  Robert,"  she  said  falteringly.  "  I — I — want  to  tell  'ee 
summat." 

Then  his  great  chest  heaved  and  the  gun  dropped  from 
his  hand. 

"  Eh,  bless  you  for  that  word,  my  lass ! "  he  cried 
brokenly.  "  I  reckoned  you  meant  to  cheat  me." 

"  Then  you  do  guess  ? "  stammered  Rebecca.  "  Oh, 
Robert — 'tis  Jim.  He  be  come  back — he  only  went  away 
to  get  work  after  all." 

Robert's  heart  leaped  up  with  an  odd  mixture  of  anguish 
and  joy.  It  was  her  sweetheart — "  the  only  man  in  the 
world  ".  Who  could  blame  the  lass  ? 

"  Ah,"  he  said  unsteadily,  "  coom  back,  is  he  ?  It's  right 
then.  You  be  in  the  right  to  stick  to  him  if  he'll  stick  to 
you." 

"  Oh,  e-es,"  returned  the  girl  quickly, "  he've  a-come  back 
for  that — he  do  want  us  to  get  married  at  once." 

A  spasm  crossed  Robert's  face.  "  You're  not  afeard 
now,  I  see,"  he  said. 

"  Oh,  I  can't  help  it,  I  can't  help  it,"  she  cried.  "  I  love 
him  best — I  did  al'ays  love  him  best,  but  I — I — oh,  Robert, 
I  be  so  sorry  ! " 

He  drew  down  her  hands  and  gently  shook  them  ;  then 
he  let  them  drop. 


190  DORSET  DEAR 

"  It's  right,"  he  said,  "ye've  no  need  to  fret  yoursel',  my 
lass — you're  a  good  lass — I  give  ye  j'y." 

He  stooped  and  picked  up  his  gun,  half-absently  un- 
loading it,  and  dropping  the  cartridges  into  his  pocket. 
Then  he  turned  towards  Rebecca  again. 

"  I'll  say  good  afternoon,"  he  said. 

Rebecca  extended  her  hand  with  a  sob,  and  he  shook  it 
once  more. 

"  Good  afternoon,"  he  repeated,  and  left  her. 

The  sun  had  not  yet  quite  set  as  he  crossed  the  open 
space  that  lay  between  the  woods  proper  and  the  outlying 
grove  of  fir-trees  ;  its  level  shafts  struck  the  ruddy  trunks 
of  these  and  ran  along  the  lower  branches,  turning  the 
very  needles  into  fire ;  the  aromatic  scent  gushed  forth, 
strong  and  sweet.  Yonder  the  downs  were  all  ablaze  in 
the  same  transitory  glow ;  the  distant  hills  were  sapphire 
and  amethyst,  the  nearer  woods  a  very  glory  of  autumn 
tints  and  sunset  fires.  Robert  stood  still  as  he  emerged 
into  the  open ;  his  heart  was  swelling  to  suffocation,  his 
eyes  smarting  with  unshed  tears.  They  are  children  of 
nature,  these  burly  Northmen,  and  he  would  have  been 
fain  to  weep  now,  though  he  had  not  wept  since  that  far- 
away day  when,  as  a  little  lad,  he  had  seen  them  lay  his 
mother  in  the  grave.  A  great  loathing  of  the  beauty  and 
the  radiance  and  the  sweetness  which  had  encompassed 
his  dead  dream,  came  upon  him ;  in  his  actual  physical 
oppression  he  thought  with  a  sick  longing  of  the  pure  tart 
air  blowing  over  the  dunes  at  home ;  the  tall  bleak 
dunes,  all  sober  grey  and  green  ;  the  brown  waves  leaping 
in  upon  the  tawny  shore. 


A  WOODLAND  IDYLL  191 

"  I  reckon  I'll  shift,"  said  Robert. 

And  early  on  the  following  morning,  when  the  yellowing 
leaves  of  Oakleigh  Wood  were  catching  the  first  rays  of 
the  sun,  Robert  Formby  took  to  the  road,  with  his  face 
turned  northwards. 


THE  CARRIER'S  TALE. 

"E-ES,  I  cT  'low  I  do  see  a  many  queer  things  while  I  be 
a-goin'  o'  my  rounds,  year  in,  year  out,  every  Tuesday  an' 
Friday  so  reg'lar  as  clockwork — only  when  Christmas  Day 
do  fall  on  a  Friday,  or  Boxin'  Day,  an'  then  I  do  have  to 
put  it  off.  E-es,  I  do  often  say  to  Whitefoot  when  he  an' 
me  be  joggin'  along ;  '  Whitefoot,'  I  d'  say,  '  if  you  an'  me 
was  to  get  a-talkin'  of  all  we've  a-seen  in  our  day,  Lard  ! 
we  could  tell  some  funny  tales.'  Whitefoot  do  seem  to 
take  jist  so  much  notice  as  what  I  do  do — he  be  the 
knowin'est  mare  in  the  country.  There !  ye  midn't  notice 
as  he  be  a-goin'  along  a  bit  unwillin'  to-day,  same  as  if  he 
hadn't  a-got  much  heart  in  him ;  'tis  because  he  knows  so 
well  as  me  what  day  'tis — Friday,  d'ye  see  ?  He  d'  know 
he'll  have  to  bring  back  a  heavy  load.  Fridays  we  calls 
at  Brewery  for  two  or  three  cases  o'  bottled  beer — we 
do  bring  'em  full  o'  Fridays  up  to  Old's,  at  Graychurch — 
right  a-top  o'  the  hill — an'  we  do  fetch  back  empties  o' 
Tuesdays,  an'  then  ye  should  jist  see  Whitefoot  a-steppin' 
along. 

"  E-es,  we  do  see  all  sorts  o'  things,  an'  we  do  hear  all 
kind  o'  talk.  Miffs  do  go  on  many  a  time  under  that  there 
wold  green  shed.  When  I  do  hear  folks  a-havin'  words 

one  wi'  t'other,  I   do  never  take  notice  if  I  can  help  it. 

192 


THE  CARRIER'S  TALE  193 

Sometimes  they'll  be  for  drawin'  me  in.  '  Don't  ye  think 
so,  Jan  ? '  one  'ull  say  ;  and  then  another  'ull  go, '  I'm  sure 
Jan  'ull  agree  wi'  I '.  An'  I  do  always  make  the  same 
answer,  '  Settle  it  among  yourselves,  good  folks,'  says  I  ; 
'  I  don't  take  zides  wi'  one  nor  yet  wi'  t'other.  Tis  my 
business  for  to  drive,  an'  I  do  do  that,'  I  do  tell  'em, '  and 
don't  interfere  wi'  nothin'  else.' 

"  One  day  I  d'  mind,  Mrs.  Collins,  what  fell  out  wi'  her 
darter  for  marry  in'  some  chap  down  to  Bere  —  dalled  if 
she  didn't  meet  the  young  woman  plump  in  my  cart !  And 
they  hadn't  been  speaking  for  above  a  year. 

"  You  see,  'twas  this  way.  I  took  up  Maiy — that's  the 
darter — an'  her  little  child — a  hinfant  it  was,  not  above 
four  or  five  month  old  ;  I  took  'em  up  first,  an'  we  was 
goin'  along  the  road  Branston-ways,  an'  it  was  gettin' 
darkish  when  the  wold  lady  met  us. 

" '  Can  you  make  room  for  me,  Jan  ? '  she  says.  '  I 
bain't  so  young  as  I  was,  an'  I've  a-got  a  pair  o'  new  boots 
what  do  fair  lame  me.' 

" '  To  be  sure,  mum,'  says  I.  '  Up  wi'  ye ;  you  can  set 
along  of  I,'  I  says,  'here  in  front.  There  bain't  much 
room  under  the  shed.' 

"  Well,  she  sits  her  down,  an'  all  of  a  minute  the  little 
baby  under  the  shed  begins  a-cryin',  an'  poor  Mary  she 
begins  a-hushin'  of  it  an'  a-talkin'  to  it ;  and  soon  as  ever 
the  wold  'ooman  hears  her  voice  she  gives  a  great  start 
what  very  nearly  throws  her  off  the  seat. 

" '  Studdy,  mum,'  says  I ;  '  if  you  do  go  a-jumpin'  up 
an'  down  like  that  we'll  be  a-droppin'  of  ye  into  the  road, 
I  says. 

13 


194  DORSET  DEAR 

"  She  made  no  answer  and  never  turned  her  head. 

"  Well,  the  baby  kep'  on  a-cryin'  and  a-cryin' — it  had 
been  vaccinated  or  some  such  thing — an'  the  mother  kep' 
hushin'  it,  an'  at  last  the  wold  'ooman  couldn't  hold  out  no 
longer. 

"  '  Give  I  that  child,  Mary,'  says  she,  sharp-like.  '  I  d' 
'low  you  don't  know  how  to  hold  it,'  she  says.  "Tis  a 
shame  to  let  a  pore  little  hinfant  scream  like  that.  I  d' 
'low  'twill  do  itself  a  mischief.' 

" '  Oh,  mother,'  says  poor  Mary ;  an'  she  begins  to  cry 
herself  as  she  hands  over  the  child. 

"  Well,  soon  as  ever  Mrs.  Collins  had  a-got  hold  o'  the 
little  thing,  an'  got  the  little  face  up  again  hers  an'  began 
singin'  to  it,  an  pattin'  it,  an'  rockin'  it,  it  did  stop  cryin' — 
'twas  a  knowin'  little  thing,  that  baby,  I  did  al'ays  say 
afterwards,  for  'twas  that  done  the  job.  The  wold  body 
was  so  pleased  as  could  be. 

" '  Didn't  I  say  you  didn't  know  how  to  hold  it  ? '  says 
she.  '  'Tis  a  very  fine  child  too,'  she  says. 

"  And  then,  '  oh,  mother,'  says  Mary,  '  I  did  so  want  ye 
to  see  it.' 

"  And  so  they  made  friends  straight  ofif,  and  Mary  went 
home  wi'  her  mother  to  tea. 

"  Coortin'  ?  Well,  we  don't  see  so  much  o'  that — not 
these  times.  The  young  chaps  be  all  for  bicylin'  these 
days ;  they  wouldn't  be  bothered  wi'  travellin'  in  my  cart. 
But  I  do  mind  one  queer  thing  what  happened  many  years 
ago  now — dally !  'twas  the  very  queerest  thing  as  ever  I 
knowed,  or  did  happen  in  these  parts. 

"  Twas  one  Tuesday.     I  wur  jist  puttin'  in  Whitefoot, 


THE  CARRIER'S  TALE 


'95 


an'  a  few  o'  my  fares  was  a-standin'  about  waitin'  for  I  to 
be  ready  to  start,  when  I  see  a  great  big  fellow  marchin' 
down  the  hill  from  Old's. 

" '  Goin'  Branston-way  ? '  says  he  with  a  nod  to  I. 

" '  E-es,'  I  says,  '  I  be  goin'  Branston-way.  Be  you  a 
stranger  ? '  says  I.  '  All  the  folks  as  lives  about  here 
do  know  as  Branston  is  my  way.' 

'"I'm  a  stranger  and  I'm  not  a  stranger,'  says  he.  '  My 
folks  used  to  live  here.  I  used  to  live  with  my  grandfather 
up  yonder  at  Whitethorns,'  he  says.  '  He  was  called  old 
Jesse  Taylor — d'ye  mind  him  ? ' 

" '  I  mind  him  very  well,'  says  I.     '  A  fine  wold  fellow.' 

" '  Well,  I  come  here  to  have  a  look  at  his  grave,'  says 
the  young  chap.  '  'Twas  a  notion  I  had.' 

" '  Let  me  see,'  says  I,  turnin'  round  to  look  at  'en  as  I 
were  a-climbin'  into  the  cart,  for  Whitefoot  was  hitched  by 
this  time,  '  let  me  see  who  mid  you  be  then  ?  Wold  Taylor 
had  nigh  upon  farty  grandchildren — I  heard  'en  say  so 
many  a  time.' 

" '  Oh,  I'm  one  of  Abel's  lot,'  says  he  ;  '  Abel  Taylor  was 
my  father's  name.  He  emigrated  wi'  half-a-dozen  of  us 
when  I  was  a  little  lad  no  higher  than  the  shaft  there ;  my 
name  is  Jim  Taylor.  I  have  spent  most  of  my  life  in  the 
States ;  I  scarce  call  myself  a  Britisher  now,'  says  he. 

'"Dear,  to  be  sure,'  says  Mrs.  Mayne,  what  was  a- 
standin'  by,  ''tis  very  sad  for  to  hear  ye  say  that,  Mr. 
Taylor.  Ye  must  feel  veiy  mournful  havin'  to  live  out 
abroad.' 

" '  I  don't  know  that,'  says  he.  He  was  a  honest,  good- 
natured-lookin'  chap,  but  when  he  says  '  I  don't  know  that' 

13* 


196  DORSET  DEAR 

he  looked  real  melancholy.  There ;  ye'd  think  some  awful 
misfortune  had  happened.  '  I  don't  know  that,'  he  says ; 
'  there's  good  and  bad  all  over  the  world,  and  there's  as 
much  bad  as  good  in  England,  I  guess.' 

"  He  had  a  funny  way  o'  talking :  '  I  guess,'  he  says, 
meanin'  for  to  say  '  I  d'  'low '. 

"  They  was  all  in  the  cart  by  this  time,  an'  Whitefoot 
was  a-trottin'  out  so  brisk  as  could  be.  He  was  a  young 
mare  then,  and  'twas  a  Tuesday,  as  I  say,  an'  he  knowed 
he'd  have  only  the  empties  to  carry  along. 

"Wold  Maria  Robbins  was  a-sittin'  jist  behind  Jim 
Taylor — a  great  talker  she  was,  al'ays  ready  to  gossip 
about  her  neighbours.  She  did  sit  a-starin'  an'  a-starin' 
at  this  here  Jim  Taylor  till  I  reckon  he  felt  her  eyes  fixed 
on  'en,  for  he  turns  round  smilin'  wi'  some  talk  about  the 
weather.  But  'twasn't  the  weather  as  Maria  did  want  to 
be  talkin'  on. 

" '  I'm  sorry,  Mr.  Taylor,'  says  she,  '  as  you've  a-been 
disappointed  like  in  your  country,'  she  says.  '  I'm  sony 
England  didn't  come  up  to  your  expectations.' 

"  He  laughed  and  began  pulling  at  his  girt  brown  beard. 

""Twill  maybe  1'arn  me  not  to  expect  too  much,'  he 
says. 

" '  I'll  go  warrant  'twas  a  maid  what  played  some  trick 
on  ye,'  says  Maria,  a-turnin'  her  head  on  one  side  same  as 
an  old  Poll-parrot. 

" '  Maids  be  tricky  things,'  says  he ;  but  he  didn't  give 
her  no  more  satisfaction. 

"  Well,  Mrs.  Mayne,  what  was  a-sitting  on  the  t'other 
side  o'  the  cart,  was  jist  as  anxious  to  pick  all  she  could 


THE  CARRIER'S  TALE  197 

out  of  'en,  an'  says  she,  pokin'  out  her  head  from  under 
the  shed : — 

"'I  d'  'low,'  she  says,  ' there  isn't  many  English  maids 
as  would  fancy  the  notion  of  goin'  out  abroad  to  get 
married.  Most  English  maids,'  says  she,  '  likes  to  settle 
down  near  their  own  folks,  an'  not  be  tolled  off  amongst 
strangers.' 

"The  wold  'ooman  had  jist  knocked  the  nail  on  the 
head.  The  chap  turns  round  about  again  wi'  his  back  to 
'em  both,  an'  the  dark  look  on  his  face. 

" '  Folks  are  free  to  please  themselves,'  says  he,  arter  a 
bit,  '  but  they  should  know  their  own  minds.  It  shouldn't 
be  "  I  will "  one  day  and  "  I  won't "  the  next.' 

"  Well,  he  didn't  seem  in  the  humour  to  talk  much  after 
this,  and  we  did  drive  on  half  a  mile  or  so  wi'out  openin' 
our  lips,  till  all  at  once  we  came  to  a  turn  in  the  road,  and 
there  was  a  lot  o'  folks  a-waitin'  for  I. 

"  'Twas  Meadway  what  lives  down  there  in  the  dip,  an' 
his  wife,  an'  three  or  four  of  his  sons  an'  daughters,  an'  a 
couple  o'  chaps  what  works  for  'en  ;  they  was  all  gathered 
round  his  niece,  Tamsine,  as  was  standin'  waiting  for  I, 
dressed  veiy  nice  for  travelling 

"  They  was  makin'  sich  a  din  when  I  pulled  up  a  body 
could  scarce  hear  hisself  speak. 

"  '  Up  wi'  the  box,'  says  one,  a-tossin'  it  up  a'most  afore 
I  could  get  my  feet  out  o'  the  way.  '  Here  be  thy  band- 
box, maidie,'  says  another.  '  Now,  Jan,  make  room.  Good 
luck,  my  dear.' 

"  Twas  old  Tom  Meadway  as  did  say  that,  an'  he  no 
sooner  let  fall  the  word  than  the  whole  lot  of  'em  took  it 


198  DORSET  DEAR 

up.  'Twas  '  Good  luck '  here,  and  '  Good  luck '  there,  and 
the  poor  maid  pulled  about  from  one  side  to  the  other,  an' 
sich  kissin"  I  thought  she'd  be  in  pieces  afore  I  did  have 
her  in  my  cart. 

"  At  last  she  got  in.  Maria  did  have  to  go  and  sit  next 
Mrs.  Mayne,  and  Tamsine  Meadway  took  her  place  behind 
Jim  Taylor,  what  sat  next  I. 

" '  Drop  us  a  line  so  soon  as  you  get  to  the  other  side,' 
says  Mrs.  Meadway. 

"'  Mind  ye  tell  us  what  he's  like,'  cries  one  o'  the  maids. 

" '  Lard,  Tamsine,'  says  another,  '  I  could  wish  I  was 
you.' 

"Then  they  did  all  start  a-cheerin',  an'  two  of  'em 
popped  their  heads  in  under  the  shed,  laughin'  fit  to  split, 
and  throwin'  somethin'  at  the  poor  maid,  an'  she  jumps  up 
an'  throws  it  out  again,  an'  then  another  maid  comes  an' 
throws  a  handful  o'  summat  almost  into  her  face. 

" '  Come,'  says  I,  '  I'd  best  be  gettin'  on,  or  they'll  make 
an  end  on  ye,  maidie.'  So  I  touches  up  Whitefoot,  an'  we 
soon  leaves  'em  all  behind,  laughin'  an'  shoutin'. 

" '  Ye  shouldn't  ha'  thrown  back  the  shoe,'  says  Mrs. 
Mayne  to  Tamsine ;  '  that  was  for  luck,  my  dear.' 

" '  They  mid  ha'  shown  a  bit  more  feelin','  says  Tamsine, 
and  a  body  could  hear  she  weren't  far  off  cryin'. 

" '  If  all  the  tale  be  true  what  I  hear,'  says  Maria  Robbins, 
'  you  be  a  very  brave  young  'ooman.  Be  it  really  true  as 
you  be  goin'  to  'Merica  to  marry  a  man  what  you've  never 
seen  ? ' 

" '  Why,  of  course  'tis  true,'  puts  in  Mrs.  Mayne,  '  and  a' 
very  good  job,  too.  What  could  anybody  do,  you  know, 


THE  CARRIER'S  TALE  199 

Miss  Robbins  ? '  she  says  to  Maria.  '  There's  poor  Robert 
Meadway  left  his  family  terrible  bad  off,  and  such  a  lot  of 
'em,  too,  and  none  of  'em  fit  to  earn  a  penny  wi'out  it's 
Tamsine  herself." 

" '  Why  didn't  she  take  a  place,  then  ? '  says  Maria.  '  I'd 
a  deal  sooner  go  to  sarvice  nor  set  out  on  this  'ere  wild 
goose  chase.  Ye'll  have  to  work  jist  so  hard,'  she  says, 
turnin'  to  Tamsine,  '  and  the  Lard  knows  what  sort  of  a 
place  it  is  you  be  a-goin'  tq,  nor  what  kind  of  a  chap  your 
husband  'ull  turn  out  to  be.' 

" '  I  shouldn't  mind  the  work,'  says  Tamsine  ;  '  of  course 
I'd  be  willin'  to  work  for  my  husband,  whoever  he  mid 
be.' 

"  She  had  a  kind  of  soft,  pleasant  voice,  and  Jim,  when 
he  heard  it,  turned  round  to  look  at  her.  I  did  turn 
round,  too. 

" '  What's  this  tale  ? '  says  I.  '  I  never  heard  nothin'  of 
it,'  I  says. 

"  '  Ah,'  says  Mrs.  Mayne,  '  Meadways  did  keep  it  dark, 
d'ye  see,  till  all  was  settled  ;  but  'tis  quite  true  as  Tamsine 
here  be  a-goin'  out  to  America  to  get  wed  to  a  man  what 
lives  out  there.  A  very  good  match  it  do  seem  to  be,  too. 
A  large  farm,  I  d'  'low,  and  a  comfortable  house.  And 
Tamsine's  intended  do  write  beautiful  letters,  Mrs.  Mead- 
way  telled  I.' 

"  Tamsine  says  nothin',  but  keeps  on  pickin'  up  the  little 
bits  o'  rice  what  her  cousins  had  throwed  at  her,  an'  drop- 
pin'  of  'em  out  o'  the  cart.  She  was  a  very  handsome 
maid,  wi'  black  eyes  an'  hair,  an'  a  pretty  bit  o'  colour  as  a 
general  thing,  but  her  face  was  so  white  as  chalk  that  day. 


200  DORSET  DEAR 

"  '  Well,'  says  Maria,  speakin'  a  bit  sour,  as  wold  maids 
will  when  there's  talk  of  young  ones  gettin'  wed.  '  I  don't 
think  it's  at  all  proper  nor  becoming  to  go  answer  they 
advertisements  what  comes  in  the  papers,  an'  for  such  a 
thing  as  wedlock — Lard  ha'  mercy  me/  she  says, '  however 
had  ye  the  face  to  do  it,  Tamsine  ? ' 

" '  'Twas  my  cousin  Martha  what  did  it,'  says  poor 
Tamsine,  hangin'  down  her  head.  '  'Twas  in  the  Western 
Gazette — a  very  respectable  paper,  my  uncle  says.  We 
was  lookin'  out  for  a  place  for  me,  and  Martha  she  saw  the 
advertisement.  It  said  the  gentleman  wanted  a  wife  from 
Dorset.  Martha  said  it  did  seem  like  a  chance  for  I,  an' 
she  took  and  wrote  straight  off,  more  for  a  bit  of  fun  than 
anything  else,  but  when  the  answer  came  it  was  wrote 
quite  in  earnest.  It  said  the  gentleman  had  knowed  some 
girl  what  came  from  Dorset,  an'  he  'lowed  he'd  like  a 
Dorset  wife.  He  gave  two  references,  one  to  a  bank  what 
said,  when  my  uncle  wrote,  he  was  very  respectable  and 
well-off,  and  one  to  a  minister  as  said  he  was  a  very  good 
man  and  'ud  make  any  'ooman  happy.  We  be  chapel-folk, 
too,  and  Uncle  Meadway  said  the  offer  did  seem  the  very 
thing  for  I.' 

" '  You  were  forced  into  it,  then  ? '  says  Jim  Taylor, 
speakin'  out  straight  and  sharp. 

" '  Oh,  forced,'  says  she,  makin'  shift  to  look  up,   '  I 
couldn't  say  forced.' 

"  But  there  were  the  big  tears  gatherin'  in  her  eyes — 
anybody  could  see  she  hadn't  had  much  say  in  the 
matter. 

"  '  My  uncle  said,'  she  goes   on,  '  I  could  have  some  of 


THE  CARRIER'S  TALE  201 

the  little  ones  sent  out  to  me  by-an'-by,  an'  Mr.  Johnson 
wrote  very  nice  about  it,  and  said  he  wouldn't  have  no 
objections.' 

" '  What  d'ye  say  the  party's  name  is  ? '  axes  young 
Taylor,  very  quick. 

"  '  Johnson — Samuel  Johnson,'  says  the  poor  maid. 

"  Well,  if  ye'll  believe  me,  the  chap  got  so  red  in  the 
face  as  if  somebody  had  hit  'en. 

"  '  Samuel  Johnson,'  says  xhe.  '  For  the  Lard's  sake, 
where  does  he  live  ? ' 

"  '  'Tis  in  California,'  says  Tamsine  ;  '  he've  a-got  a  farm 
— a  ranch  he  calls  it — at  a  place  called  Longwood.' 

"  '  Sakes  alive  ! '  cries  Jim,  an'  he  sits  there  gawkin*  at 
the  maid. 

"  '  Of  all  the  durned  cheek  ! '  says  he  at  last,  speaking  in 
his  queer  fayshion.  '  If  the  boys  around  was  to  know  he 
had  the  face  to  ax  a  young  British  girl  to  marry  him,  I  tell 
ye  what,'  he  says,  '  he'd  be  lynched  afore  he  knew  where 
he  was ! ' 

"  '  Dear,  to  be  sure,'  cries  Mrs.  Mayne,  a-clappin'  of  her 
hands  together,  '  what's  wrong  wi'  the  man  ? ' 

"  '  P'r'aps  he's  got  a  wife  already,'  says  Maria. 

"  '  Maybe  'tisn't  the  same  Samuel  Johnson,'  says  I.  '  I 
d'  'low  I  seem  to  ha'  heerd  o'  the  name  afore.' 

"  '  'Tis  a  play-actin'  kind  o'  a  name,'  says  Maria. 

"  Poor  Tamsine,  she  was  so  white  as  any  sheet,  an'  she 
did  stretch  out  her  hand  an'  grab  hold  o'  Jim  by  the  sleeve, 
an'  shake  'en. 

"  '  Tell  I  quick,'  she  cried  ;  an'  then  she  drops  her  hand, 
an'  begins  a-cryin'. 


202  DORSKT  DEAR 

"  '  No,  don't  tell  me,'  she  says  ;  '  don't  ye  tell  me  nothing. 
I'm  bound  every  way.  I've  a-passed  my  word,'  says  she  ; 
'  an'  he's  actually  sent  the  money  for  my  ticket.  I  can't  go 
back  now ! ' 

"  '  Yes,  but  you  shall  go  back,'  cries  Jim,  a-catchin'  of 
her  by  the  wrist.  '  I'll  not  stand  by — no  honest  man  could, 
an'  see  a  young  girl — a  good  honest  young  girl,  sold  to 
such  a  chap  as  Johnson.  Why,  he's  a  nigger ! '  he  cries. 

"  Poor  Tamsine,  I  thought  she'd  ha'  fell  off  the  seat. 

"  '  A  black  man  ! '  screeches  she. 

"  '  As  black  as  my  shoes,'  says  Jim.  'A  great  big,  oily, 
dirty  nigger,'  says  he. 

"  He  didn't  pick  his  words,  d'ye  see. 

"  '  Why,  his  head's  as  woolly  as  a  sheep's  back,'  he  says. 

"  '  No,  my  girl,'  he  goes  on,  '  it  can't  be  allowed.' 

"  '  But  I'm  bound,'  says  Tamsine,  wi'  her  face  working 
pitiful. 

" '  You  are  no  more  bound  nor  I  am,'  says  he.  '  The 
rascal's  imposed  on  ye  shameful.  He  knows  right  well 
he'd  no  business  to  ax  a  white  girl  to  marry  him  wi'out 
tellin'  her  all  the  truth.  Why  didn't  he  ax  you  straight  if 
you'd  be  willin'  to  take  up  wi'  a  black  man  ?  But  he 
knowed  a  deal  better  nor  that.' 

"  '  But  perhaps  it  isn't  the  same  Mr.  Johnson,'  says  Mrs. 
Mayne.  '  It  'ud  be  a  pity  for  the  maid  to  give  up  her 
husband  if  there  was  any  mistake.' 

" '  I  know  Longwood  in  California,'  says  Jim,  '  as  well  as 
I  know  my  own  hand.  I  was  there  only  last  fall.  'Tisnt 
a  very  big  place,  an'  I  knowed  every  one  as  lives  there.  I 
knowed  Samuel  Johnson  well — he  come  to  chapel  reg'lar. 


THE  CARRIER'S  TALE  203 

I  reckon,'  says  he,  '  the  name  o'  the  minister  as  recom- 
mended him  was  Ebenezer  Strong.' 

" '  E-es,'  says  Tamsine, '  that's  the  name.  The  Reverend 
Ebenezer  Strong.' 

"'That's  it,'  shouts  Jim.  'Why,  he's  a  coloured  man 
hisself — he  wouldn't  be  likely  to  find  fault  wi'  the  man  for 
bein'  a  nigger.  You  mustn't  ha'  no  more  to  do  wi'  him,  my 
girl.  Twas  a  mercy  I  met  ye,  and  could  warn  ye  in  time.' 

"'Oh!  but  what  can  Kdo?'  cries  the  poor  maid,  a- 
sobbin'  fit  to  break  her  heart.  '  There's  not  a  bit  o'  use  in 
my  goin'  back.  None  of  'em  would  believe  the  tale.  My 
uncle  would  make  me  go  all  the  same,  I  know.' 

" '  E-es,  to  be  sure,'  says  Maria  Robbins,  looking  at  Jim 
very  sour-like ;  '  'tisn't  very  likely  as  Mr.  Meadway  'ud  be 
put  off"  by  a  chance  tale  from  a  stranger.  There  he've 
a- been  at  the  expense  o'  gettin'  everthin'  ready  for  the 
maid,  and  this  'ere  gentleman  what  writes  so  straightfor- 
ward an'  sends  the  money  so  handsome,  may  be  some 
quite  other  Mr.  Johnson.  I  mind,'  says  Maria,  '  the  time 
o'  the  Crimee  War,  Miss  Old  went  into  deep  black  for 
some  chap  called  John  Old,  what  got  killed  out  abroad, 
and  what  she  reckoned  was  her  brother,  an'  'twasn't  him 
at  all.' 

" '  Samuel  Johnson,  o'  Longwood,  is  a  nigger,'  cries  Jim, 
smacking  his  hands  together.  '  His  grandfather  was  a 
slave.  He  belonged  to  some  queer  old  gentleman  what 
gave  'en  the  name  to  start  wi',  'cause  'twas  the  name  of 
some  old  ancient  chap  what  wrote  a  book  or  some  such 
thing;  an'  this  chap  was  named  for  him  Samuel  Johnson 
too.  There  ain't  no  mistake,  you  bet,'  says  he. 


204  DORSET  DEAR 

"  Well,  Tamsine  was  a-cryin'  and  a-shakin'  all  over  like 
a  aspen  leaf  all  this  time ;  and  when  Maria  was  advisin' 
her  to  be  sensible  an'  not  hearken  to  them  sort  of  idle 
tales,  I  thought  she'd  ha'  had  a  fit.  I  could  ha'  laughed 
any  other  time  to  hear  wold  Maria,  as  was  so  dead 
again'  the  girl  marryin'  when  she  thought  'twas  a  nice 
match,  an'  now  she  was  all  for  her  doin'  it,  though  she 
seed  how  skeart  the  poor  maid  was.  Mrs.  Mayne  had  a 
softer  heart. 

" '  If  this  be  really  true,  Jan,'  she  says,  lookin'  at  I,  '  it 
do  seem  a  pity  for  the  maid  to  go  any  forrarder.  Better 
for  her  to  stay  at  home  and  go  to  sarvice,'  says  she. 
'  There,  Tamsine,  give  over  cryin'.  Nobody  can  force  ye 
to  go  to  America  or  to  take  up  wi'  this  'ere  nigger  against 
your  will.  Go  back  an'  tell  your  uncle  what  you've 
a-heard,  an'  let  him  keep  ye  a  bit  longer  till  ye've  a-got  a 
situation.' 

" '  Oh,  I  dursn't  go  back,'  says  poor  Tamsine.  An'  then 
Jim  reaches  towards  her  and  takes  her  by  the  hand  again. 

" '  Look  here,  my  dear,'  says  he,  '  don't  go  back.  Ye 
can  go  out  to  America,'  says  he,  'but  it  needn't  be  to 
marry  that  dirty  nigger.  I'm  going  back  to  the  States 
now,'  says  he,  '  and  I  thought  to  take  a  wife  wi'  me,  but 
the  maid  I  was  coortin'  drew  back  at  the  last.  She  didn't 
think  so  much  of  her  word  seemingly  as  you  do.  Come,' 
says  he,  'you've  seen  me  an'  you  haven't  seen  Samuel 
Johnson.  Look  me  in  the  face  and  tell  me  if  you  think 
you  could  put  up  wi'  me  ? ' 

"  The  poor  maid  she  was  that  upset,  and  that  surprised, 
she  couldn't  for  the  life  of  her  look  at  'en,  an'  he  leaned 


THE  CARRIER'S  TALE  205 

over  an'  took  her  by  the  chin,  very  gentle-like,  an'  turned 
up  her  face. 

" '  Look  at  me,  my  dear/  says  he,  '  an'  see  if  ye  can 
trust  me.' 

"  So  at  that  Tamsine  did  look  at  'en,  wi'  the  big  tears 
standin'  on  her  eyelashes,  an'  her  mouth  all  a-quiverin'. 

"'Id'  'low  I  could/  says  she. 

"  '  And,  mind  ye/  goes  on  Jim,  '  I  can  make  ye  just  so 
comfortable  as  t'other  chapv<ud  ha'  done.  I've  got  a  big 
place  and  a  comfortable  house,  and  I  do  want  to  settle 
down  reg'lar.  So  say  the  word,  my  dear/  says  he. 

"  '  Lard,  maid  ! '  cried  Maria,  so  sudden-like  that  we  all 
fair  jumped,  '  whatever  be  ye  thinkin'  on  ? '  says  she ;  'tis 
plain  what  he've  made  up  this  cock-an'-bull  story  for  now/ 
she  says.  '  He  be  a  reg'lar  deludin'  deceiver ;  don't  ye  ha' 
nothin'  to  say  to  'en.' 

" '  It  do  seem  veiy  sudden/  says  Mrs.  Mayne ;  '  I 
wouldn't  go  out  to  America  wi'  a  stranger,  Tamsine.' 

" '  Do  you  trust  me,  my  dear  ? '  says  he,  looking  at  Tam- 
sine, and  not  takin'  no  notice  at  all  of  nobody  else. 

"  The  maid  she  looked  back  at  'en  more  pitiful  than 
ever,  an'  then  she  did  say : — 

"'Id'  'low  I  do.' 

"  '  Well,  then,  so  ye  may/  says  he,  a-shakin'  of  her  hand 
very  serious  like  ;  '  but  I'll  make  all  fair  and  square  for  ye 
first.  I'll  not  ax  too  much  of  ye.  We'll  be  man  and  wife 
before  we  go/  says  he. 

"  So  the  whole  thing  was  made  up  wi'out  no  more  trouble 
nor  that.  Jim  axed  Mrs.  Mayne  if  the  maid  could  lodge 
wi'  her  till  they  was  married,  an'  he  settled  straight  off 
what  he'd  pay  for  her  board.  He  did  pull  out  a  pocket- 


206  DORSET  DEAR 

book  stuffed  wi'  money,  so  as  even  Maria  Robbins  could 
see  the  maid  was  a-doin'  well  for  herself. 

" '  You  hand  me  over  that  there  money  as  Johnson  sent 
ye,'  says  he  to  Tamsine  ;  '  he  must  have  it  back  by  the 
next  mail.  I'll  look  after  ye  now,'  says  he.  '  My  purse  is 
your  purse.' 

"  An'  though  the  man  could  scarce  ha'  meant  it,  for  I 
d'  'low  he  was  too  sensible  a  chap  to  hold  wi'  settin' 
womenfolk  so  much  above  theirselves  as  that  'ud  shape  to, 
'twas  a  handsome  thing  for  'en  to  say.  Well,  Tamsine 
went  to  lodge  wi'  Mrs.  Mayne,  for  she  couldn't  no  ways 
make  up  her  mind  to  go  back  to  her  uncle ;  an'  she  did 
beg  us  all  not  to  say  a  word  about  the  changin'  her 
plan  till  the  weddin'  was  over,  but  Maria,  she  did  go 
straight  off  to  Meadways'  wi'  the  tale.  They  were  all  in 
a  terrible  takin'  at  first,  an'  Mrs.  Meadway  she  came  to  Mrs. 
Mayne's  an'  gave  her  an'  Tamsine  a  bit  of  her  mind — 
more,  I  d'  'low,  on  account  of  the  maid  not  goin'  back  to 
their  place  than  for  her  takin'  up  wi'  another  man.  'Twas 
bringing  disgrace  on  her  family,  says  she. 

"  Poor  Tamsine  was  in  a  terrible  way,  when  in  walks 
Jim  Taylor,  an'  what  he  said  an'  what  he  did  I  couldn't 
tell  ye,  but  he  managed  to  pacify  them  all.  Meadways  all 
come  to  the  weddin',  an'  Jim  was  so  taken  up  wi'  Tarn- 
sine's  little  brothers  and  sisters,  that  he  took  two  of  'em 
out  wi'  'en  an'  sent  for  the  others  some  time  after.  I  d' 
'low  he'd  ha'  cut  off  his  head  for  Tamsine. 

"  Well,  that's  the  end  o'  the  tale.  Ye'll  agree  'twas  a 
bit  queer — the  queerest  thing  as  ever  did  happen  to  I, 
though,  as  I  do  say,  Whitefoot  an'  me  have  a-seen  many 
queer  things  in  our  time." 


MRS.  SIBLEY  AND  THE  SEXTON. 

IT  was  Christmas  Eve,  and  Mrs.  Fry  was  returning  home 
from  Branston  with  a  bulging  pocket  and  a  piled-up 
market-basket.  Clinging  to  her  skirts  was  the  youngest 
baby  but  one,  while  Selina,  her  eldest  daughter,  trundled 
along  the  "  pram,"  the  occupant  of  which  was  almost 
smothered  amid  parcels  of  various  shapes  and  sizes.  The 
intermediaiy  members  of  Mrs.  Fry's  family  straggled 
between  the  two,  all  very  clean  and  tidy  and  all  beaming 
with  good  humour.  Stanley,  indeed,  evinced  a  propensity 
to  tumble  into  the  gutter  eveiy  now  and  then,  while 
Wyndham  and  'Erbert  occasionally  delayed  the  advance 
of  the  procession  by  playfully  sparring  at  each  other  almost 
beneath  the  perambulator  wheels.  The  little  cortege  made 
slow  progress,  for,  as  Mrs.  Fry  laughingly  observed,  it  was 
the  hardest  job  in  the  world  to  get  a  big  little  family 
home-along  ;  nevertheless,  the  general  serenity  remained 
undisturbed.  It  was  pleasant  enough  to  loiter  on  this  fine 
diy  afternoon,  for  the  air  was  clear  and  crisp,  and  the 
roads  clean  and  hard  as  iron.  Even  the  baby  cooed  and 
chuckled  as  it  squinted  upwards  at  its  sister  from  behind 
the  whitey-brown  parcel  which  reposed  on  its  small  chest. 
The  party  at  length  turned  off  from  the  high  road,  and 

was  proceeding  tranquilly  down  the  "dip"  which  led  to 

207 


208  DORSET  DEAR 

the  small  group  of  cottages  of  which  the  Frys'  home  made 
one,  when  from  the  farmyard  gate  on  the  right  a  tall 
woman  emerged  carrying  a  jug  of  milk. 

"Be  that  you,  Mrs.  Fry?  I  stepped  over  to  your  place 
an  hour  ago,  but  there  was  no  one  at  home." 

"  We  all  corned  out  to  do  a  bit  o'  Christmas  shoppin', 
Mrs.  Sibley,  d'ye  see.  But  I'm  sorry  I  missed  ye.  Will 
ye  step  in  and  have  a  drop  o'  tea  wi'  us  ?  Selina  will  hurry 
on  and  get  it  ready." 

"  No,  thank  ye,"  returned  Mrs.  Sibley  gloomily ;  "  I'll  not 
go  in  now,  Mrs.  Fry — not  when  all  your  family's  about. 
I  was  a-lookin'  for  a  word  wi'  'ee  confidential-like.  I  was 
a-wantin'  for  to  ax  your  advice,  Mrs.  Fry." 

"  Oh,  and  was  ye  ? "  said  Mrs.  Fry,  much  impressed. 
"  Tell  'ee  what — I'll  send  the  childern  home  wi'  'Lina  an' 
I'll  step  in  to  your  place,  Mrs.  Sibley,  my  dear.  But  all 
Foyle's  family  'ull  be  there,  won't  they  ? — there'll  not  be 
much  chance  to  talk  private." 

"  There  will,  though,"  returned  Mrs.  Sibley.  "  I  sent  the 
childern  out  wi'  their  father  a-purpose.  Things  is  gettin' 
serious,  Mrs.  Fry ;  but  there !  I  can't  converse  out  here. 
Best  let  the  matter  bide  till  we  be  safe  in  my  house." 

Mrs.  Fry  hastily  detached  the  small  chubby  hands  of 
Halfred — she  had  a  pretty  taste  in  nomenclature — who 
was  clinging  to  her  skirts,  and  desiring  the  child  to  run 
home-along  wi'  'Lina,  gave  her  undivided  attention  to  her 
neighbour. 

"  Not  here,"  said  Mrs.  Sibley  impressively,  as  she  began 
to  ply  her  with  questions  ;  "  at  my  house." 

They  turned  aside  into  the  first  cottage  of  the  group,  and 


MRS.  SIBLEY  AND  THE  SEXTON  209 

Mrs.  Sibley,  opening  the  gate,  stalked  in  front  of  her  crony 
along  the  flagged  path,  and  flung  open  the  house-door. 
Pausing  in  the  middle  of  the  kitchen,  she  added  emphati- 
cally, "In  Foyle's  house  I  should  say ". 

"  It  be  the  same  thing,  hain't  it  ? "  returned  Mrs.  Fry 
cheerfully,  "  or  like  to  be  soon  ". 

"  Be  it  ? "  said  Mrs.  Sibley  witheringly.  "  Be  it, 
Martha  ? " 

Mrs.  Fry  set  down  her  market-basket,  and  dropped 
into  the  nearest  chair. 

"  Lard,  my  dear,  you  do  make  I  feel  quite  nervish.  Be 
things  a-goin'  wrong?" 

Mrs.  Sibley  folded  her  arms,  and  surveyed  her  for  a 
moment  in  silence.  She  was  an  angular  woman  with  a 
frosty  eye,  which  she  now  fixed  grimly  on  Mrs.  Fry. 

"  I  don't  say  as  they  be  a-goin'  wrong,"  she  remarked 
after  a  pause,  "  but  they  don't  seem  to  be  a-goin'  right. 
Foyle,  there,  he  haven't  got  the  spirit  of  a  mouse." 

"  Hasn't  he  said  nothin'  —  nothin'  at  all  ? "  inquired 
Mrs.  Fry,  resting  a  plump  hand  on  either  knee  and  leaning 
forward. 

"  Not  a  single  word,"  replied  her  friend  ;  "  that's  to  say, 
not  a  word  wi'  any  sense  in  it.  An'  Sibley  have  been  gone 
six  months  now,  mind  ye." 

"  So  he  have  ! "  replied  Mrs.  Fry.  "  An'  ye  mid  say  as 
you've  been  so  good  as  a  widder  for  nigh  upon  six  year — 
ye  mid  indeed.  A  husband  what's  in  the  'sylum  is  worse 
nor  no  husband  at  all.  An'  ye've  a-been  keepin'  house  for 
Foyle  these  four  year,  haven't  ye  ? " 

"  Four  year  an'  two   month,"  responded    Mrs.  Sibley. 


210  DORSET  DEAR 

"  There,  the  veiy  day  after  Mrs.  Foyle  were  buried  he  did 
come  to  me  an'  he  says  so  plain-spoke  as  anything, '  Mrs. 
Sibley,'  he  says,  '  here  be  you  a  lone  woman  wi'out  no 
family,  an'  here  be  I  wi'  all  they  little  childern.  Will  'ee 
come  an'  keep  house  for  I  an'  look  after  'em  all  ?  Ye'll  not 
be  the  loser  by  it,'  he  says.  So  I  looks  him  straight  in  the 
face  :  '  I  bain't  so  sure  o'  that,  Mr.  Foyle,'  I  says.  '  I  do 
look  at  it  in  this  way,  d'ye  see.  A  woman  has  her  chances,' 
I  says.  '  I  don't  think  Sibley  'ull  last  so  very  long — they 
seldom  does  at  the  'sylum — an'  then  here  be  I,  a  lone 
woman,  as  you  do  say.  I  mid  very  well  like  to  settle 
myself  again  ;  an'  if  I  go  an'  bury  myself  so  far  away  from 
town  in  a  place  where  there's  sich  a  few  neighbours,  I  don't 
see  what  prospects  I'll  have.' " 

"  Well,  that  was  straightforward  enough,"  commented 
Mrs.  Fry.  "  He  couldn't  make  no  mistakes  about  your 
meanin'." 

"  He  could  not,"  agreed  Mrs.  Sibley  triumphantly  ;  "  an' 
what's  more,  he  didn't.  He  up  an'  spoke  as  plain  as  a 
man  could  speak.  '  Well,  Mrs.  Sibley,'  he  says,  '  there's  a 
Fate  what  rules  us  all.'  He  be  always  a-sayin'  off  bits  o' 
po'try  an'  sichlike  as  he  gets  from  the  gravestones,  ye 
know." 

"  Ah,"  remarked  Mrs.  Fry  nodding,  "  being  the  sexton, 
of  course,  it  do  come  nat'ral  to  'en,  don't  it  ? " 

" '  There's  a  Fate  what  rules  us  all,'  he  says,"  resumed 
Mrs.  Sibley,  "  '  an'  we  didn't  ought  to  m'urn  as  if  we  had 
no  hope.  If  you  was  a  free'ooman,  Mrs.  Sibley — well,  I'm 
a  free  man,  and  I'd  make  so  good  a  husband  as  another. 
Maria  did  always  find  I  so,'  he  says." 


MRS.  SIBLEY  AND  THE  SEXTON  211 

"  Well,  the  man  couldn't  have  said  more." 

"  So  you'd  think.  But  why  don't  he  say  summat  now  ? 
There,  I've  a-kept  his  house  an'  seen  arter  his  childern  for 
more  nor  four  year.  Time's  gettin'  on,  ye  know  ;  I  hain't 
so  young  as  I  was." 

Mrs.  Fry  began  a  polite  disclaimer,  but  was  overruled 
by  the  other. 

"  I  bain't — tisn't  in  natur'  as  I  could  be.  I  wer'  gettin' 
a  bit  anxious  this  year  when  poor  Sibley  did  seem  to  be 
hangin'  on  so  long,  so  I  axed  Rector  to  have  'en  prayed 
for " 

"  A-h-h-h  ? "  ejaculated  Martha,  as  she  paused.  "  An' 
that  did  put  the  Lard  in  mind  of  'en,  I  should  think." 

"  It  did  put  the  Lard  in  mind  of  "en,"  agreed  Mrs.  Sibley 
with  gusto.  "  The  Lard  see'd  he  warn't  no  good  to  no- 
body in  the  'sylum,  an'  so  he  wer'  took." 

"  An'  Foyle  have  never  come  forward  ? "  remarked  Mrs. 
Fry,  after  a  significant  pause. 

"  He've  never  made  no  offer,  an'  he've  never  said  a  single 
word  to  show  he  were  thinkin'  o'  sich  a  thing.  Not  one 
word,  Mrs.  Fry.  I've  given  'en  the  chance  many  a  time. 
A  month  arter  poor  Sibley  was  buried  I  says  to  'en, 
'  Here  be  I  now,  Mr.  Foyle,'  I  says,  '  a  widow  'ooman,  the 
same  as  you  be  a  widow  man '." 

"  An'  what  did  he  say  ?  "  queried  her  neighbour  eagerly. 

"  Oh,  summat  about  the  'opes  of  a  glorious  resurrection," 
returned  Mrs.  Sibley  scornfully.  "  An'  another  time  I 
says  to  'en,  '  Mr.  Foyle,'  I  says,  '  d'ye  mind  the  talk  what 
you  an'  me  did  have  when  you  first  did  ax  I  to  keep 
house  for  ye  ? '  '  What  talk,'  says  he.  '  Why,'  I  says, 

14* 


212  DORSET  DEAR 

'  about  me  bein'  free  an'  you  makin'  a  good  husband.' 
'  Free,'  says  he  sighin' ;  '  this  life's  a  bondage,  Mrs.  Sibley.' 
An'  off  he  went." 

"Ah!"  commented  Mrs.  Fry,  "he  wer'  thinkin'  o' 
them  verses  what's  wrote  on  old  Farmer  Reed's  tomb- 
stone. I  mind  they  do  begin  this  way  : — 

1  This  life  is  but  a  bondage, 
My  soul  at  last  is  free.1  " 

"  That's  it,"  agreed  Mrs.  Sibley  nodding.  "  I  says  to 
'en  this  marnin',  '  Mr.  Foyle,'  I  says,  '  the  New  Year's  a- 
comin',  an'  I  think  there  ought  to  be  some  change  in  the 
early  part  of  it  for  you  an'  me.'  '  I  don't  want  no  changes,' 
he  says ;  '  I'm  very  well  satisfied  as  I  be.'  I'm  gettin' 
desperate,  Mrs.  Fry." 

"  Well,  'tis  very  onconsiderate,"  returned  Martha,  "  very. 
I'm  sure  ye've  said  all  ye  could  an'  done  all  ye  could.  'Tis 
hard,  too,  for  a  woman  to  have  to  go  a-droppin'  hints  an" 
a-takin'  the  lead  in  such  a  delicate  matter.  I'm  sure  I 
don't  know  what  to  advise,  my  dear." 

Mrs.  Sibley  rubbed  her  nose,  and  gazed  at  her  friend 
meditatively. 

"  I'm  about  the  only  'ooman  in  this  'ere  place  as  Foyle 
could  get  to  keep  house  for  him,"  she  remarked.  "  I'll  tell 
'ee  what  I'll  do,  Mrs.  Fry — I'll  march  !  Leastways,"  she 
added,  correcting  herself,  "  I'll  tell  'en  I  be  goin'.  We'll 
see  how  he'll  like  that." 

"  Ye  mid  try  it,"  said  Martha  reflectively  ;  "  it  'ud  be  a 
bit  ark'ard,  though,  if  he  was  to  take  'ee  at  your  word." 

"  He'll  not  do  that,"  returned  Mrs.  Sibley,  continuing 
emphatically  :  "  Now,  Mrs.  Fry,  my  dear,  I'll  expect  'ee  to 


MRS.  SIBLEY  AND  THE  SEXTON  213 

act  the  part  of  a  friend  by  me.  If  he  do  ax  ye  to  lend  'en 
a  hand  or  send  over  Selina  to  help  'en,  don't  ye  go  for  to 
do  no  such  thing." 

"  I  won't,"  promised  Mrs.  Fry. 

"  An'  if  he  do  say  anything  to  'ee  about  my  leavin',  do 
ye  jist  let  on  as  my  mind  be  quite  made  up." 

"  I  will,"  said  Mrs.  Fiy. 

"  I'll  start  packin'  at  once  then,  to  show  'en  as  I  be  in 
earnest,"  said  Mrs.  Sibley,  with  a  dry  chuckle  as  her  friend 
rose. 

No  sooner  had  Mrs.  Fry  edged  through  the  narrow  door 
with  her  market-basket  than  Mrs.  Sibley  set  to  work. 

When  Mr.  Foylc,  who  united  the  double  functions  of 
carrier  and  sexton,  unhitched  the  horse  from  his  van,  and, 
having  seen  to  the  animal's  comfort,  went  indoors,  he  was 
surprised  to  find  his  children,  who  had  preceded  him  into 
the  house,  standing  with  scared  faces  round  the  packing- 
case,  which  occupied  the  centre  of  the  kitchen,  while  Mrs. 
Sibley,  with  an  air  of  great  determination,  was  stowing 
away  various  articles  therein. 

"  Hullo  ! "  cried  he,  pausing  in  the  doorway.  "  What's 
the  matter  here  ?  Isn't  tea  ready  ?  " 

"  You'd  best  put  on  the  kettle,  Florence,"  said  Mrs. 
Sibley,  turning  to  the  eldest  child.  "  I  haven't  had 
time  to  'tend  to  it.  Oh,  be  that  you,  Mr.  Foyle  ?  Would 
you  kindly  hand  me  down  that  there  clock  ?  I'm  afeard 
the  childern  mid  break  it.  Henery,  just  roll  up  that 
door-mat  an'  fetch  it  here." 

"  Dear  heart  alive,  what  be  about,  Mrs.  Sibley  ? "  ejacu- 
lated honest  Foyle.  "  You  haven't  had  no  bad  noos,  I 
hope  ? " 


214  DORSET  DEAR 

"  Oh,  no  noos  at  all,  Mr.  Foyle.  Nothin'  noo  do  never 
come  a-nigh  this  'ere  place.  I  be  goin'  to  have  a  bit  of  a 
change — I  did  tell  'ee  this  marnin'  as  I  wanted  a  change, 
didn't  I  ?  I  be  a-goin'  to  shift,  Mr.  Foyle." 

"  To  shift ! "  ejaculated  the  sexton. 

He  slowly  unwound  the  lengths  of  black  and  white  com- 
forter which  were  swathed  about  his  neck,  gaping  at  her 
the  while. 

"  You'd  best  make  tea,  hadn't  you  ? "  remarked  Mrs. 
Sibley,  ostentatiously  counting  over  the  plated  spoons 
which  were  her  property.  "  Florence  'ud  very  likely  scald 
herself." 

The  sexton  dropped  heavily  into  the  nearest  chair. 

"  Ye  bain't  goin'  away  to-night ! "  he  gasped. 

Mrs.  Sibley  straightened  herself  and  eyed  him  reflec- 
tively. It  might  be  a  little  awkward  to  say  she  was  leav- 
ing that  night,  for  if  by  chance  he  did  take  her  at  her 
word,  she  had  not  the  remotest  notion  of  where  she  could 

go- 

"  Not  to-night,"  she  said  at  length,  with  the  air  of  one 
making  a  concession.  "  1  reckon  to-morrow  'ull  be  time 
enough." 

Florence  laid  down  the  teapot  and  approached,  her  eyes 
round  with  consternation. 

"  Ye're  never  goin'  to  leave  us  on  Christmas  Day  !  "  she 
ejaculated.  "  Oh,  Auntie  !  " 

"  Auntie  "  was  the  title  unanimously  bestowed  on  Mrs. 
Sibley  by  the  young  Foyles,  and  accepted  by  that  lady 
pending  its  exchange  for  a  more  intimate  one. 

In  a  moment  Florence  burst  into  tears,  and  the  other 


MRS.  SIBLEY  AND  THE  SEXTON  215 

children  immediately  followed  suit,  little  Rosanna  being 
indeed  so  overcome  by  her  feelings  that  she  was  constrained 
to  lie  on  the  floor  and  scream. 

Mrs.  Sibley  stooped  over  her  and  set  her  on  her  feet. 
Beneath  her  stiff  and  somewhat  chilly  demeanour  she  had 
a  warm  enough  heart,  and  was  sincerely  attached  to  her 
charges,  particularly  the  youngest,  whom  she  had  brought 
up  from  infancy. 

"  Ye'll  have  to  get  another  Auntie,  my  dear,"  she  re- 
marked, winking  away  a  tear.  "  And  'tis  to  be  hoped  as 
she'll  take  as  good  care  of  you  as  I've  a-done." 

The  sexton  breathed  hard,  but  did  not  venture  to  pro- 
test, and  Heneiy,  after  rubbing  his  eyes  on  his  jacket  sleeve, 
inquired  in  a  reproachful  tone  why  Auntie  was  going  away. 

"  I  wants  a  change,  my  dears,"  reiterated  Mrs.  Sibley, 
bestowing  a  gentle  shake  on  Rosanna,  as  a  means  of 
bringing  her  round,  for  the  child,  following  her  favourite 
mode  of  procedure  when  her  feelings  were  too  many  for 
her,  was  rapidly  growing  black  in  the  face.  "  I  did  tell 
Father  so  this  marnin' — Father  knows.  He  bain't  surprised, 
I'm  sure.  What  must  be,  must  be ! "  summed  up  Mrs. 
Sibley  oracularly.  Thereupon  casting  an  inquiring  eye 
round  the  room,  she  descried  the  warming-pan,  which  was 
hanging  behind  the  door,  pounced  upon  it,  and  stowed  it 
away  in  the  packing-case  on  top  of  the  hearthrug. 

Silence  reigned  for  some  moments,  broken  only  by  the 
sobs  of  the  children  and  the  rustling  of  Mrs.  Sibley's 
packing-papers. 

"  Ye'd  best  give  the  children  their  tea,  Mr.  Foyle,"  she 
remarked,  looking  up  presently.  "  They  be  in  need  of  it, 


2i6  DORSET  DEAR 

poor  things.  There,  don't  ye  cry  so,  Florence.  Ye'll  be 
gettin'  another  Auntie  soon — at  least,  I  hope  so.  Though 
reelly  I  don't  quite  see  who  ye  can  call  in,  Mr.  Foyle,  I 
don't  indeed.  I  passed  the  remark  to  Mrs.  Fiy  to-day,  an 
she  said  she  was  sure  she  didn't  know  who  you  could  turn 
to.  Her  own  hands  was  full,  she  said.  Poor  'Lina  was 
worked  a  deal  too  hard  for  a  maid  of  her  age,  already. 
Them  was  her  words.  But  sit  down  to  your  tea,  do,  Mr. 
Foyle.  Get  the  bread,  Florence ;  'tis  time  for  you 
to  be  growin'  handy.  'Tis  you  as  'ull  have  to  be  keepin' 
the  house  most  like." 

It  might  have  been  the  result  of  Florence's  emotion,  or 
it  might  have  been  owing  to  the  fact  that  the  shelf  was  a 
high  one  and  Florence's  arms  were  short,  but  in  some  way 
or  other  in  reaching  down  the  loaf  she  managed  to  tumble 
it  into  the  coal-box. 

Foyle  rose  hastily,  pushed  the  child  on  one  side,  picked 
up  the  loaf,  dusted  it  with  his  sleeve,  set  it  on  the  table, 
and  went  out,  banging  the  door  behind  him. 

As  the  sound  of  his  retreating  footsteps  echoed  down 
the  path,  Mrs.  Sibley  rose  to  her  feet  and  smiled  upon  the 
children,  who  were  now  sobbing  afresh. 

"There,  don't  ye  make  such  a  fuss,"  she  remarked 
soothingly.  "  Father's  a  bit  upset ;  ye  mustn't  mind  that. 
Get  on  with  your  teas,  dears.  There,  ye  may  have  a  bit 
of  jam  to  it  to-night,  as  it's  Christmas  Eve  ;  and  afterwards 
we'll  stick  up  some  green,  and  you  must  all  hang  up  your 
stockin's  and  see  what  you'll  find  there  in  the  marnin'." 

Cheerfulness  was  immediately  restored ;  little  faces  grimed 
by  tears  smiled  afresh  ;  plates  were  extended  for  plentiful 


MRS.  SIBLEY  AND  THE  SEXTON  217 

helpings  of  blackberry  jam,  and  soon  little  tongues  were 
gleefully  discussing  the  morrow's  prospects,  and  particu- 
larly the  treasures  which  might  be  looked  for  in  the 
stockings. 

"  But  I've  only  got  such  a  'ittle  stockin',"  lisped  Rosanna, 
contemplating  a  chubby  leg,  which  was,  indeed,  but  im- 
perfectly protected  by  about  three  inches  of  sock.  "  My 
stockin'  won't  hold  half  so  much  as  the  others." 

"  There,  I'll  lend  you  onex  of  mine,  then,"  said  Auntie, 
graciously  ;  and,  going  to  the  chest  of  drawers  in  the 
comer,  she  drew  forth  a  pair  of  her  own  substantial  stock- 
ings, and  presented  one  to  the  child. 

As  the  children  retired  for  the  night,  Henery  paused 
beside  her  for  a  moment. 

"  You  won't  truly  go  to-morrow,  Auntie  ? "  he  pleaded 
coaxingly. 

Mrs.  Sibley  paused  a  moment,  and  in  the  interval  the 
sound  of  the  sexton's  slouching  step  was  heard  without, 
and  his  hand  fumbled  at  the  latch. 

"  It  do  all  depend  on  Father,  Henery,"  said  Mrs.  Sibley, 
raising  her  voice  slightly.  "  He  do  know  very  well  as  I  do 
want  a  change." 

Mr.  Foyle  entered,  looking  weaiy  and  depressed,  and 
sat  down  in  his  customary  chair.  Mrs.  Sibley  cast  a 
searching  glance  round  the  kitchen,  and,  possessing  her- 
self of  a  pair  of  spotted  china  dogs  which  adorned  the 
mantel-piece,  added  them  to  her  collection,  and  retired. 

The  sexton  lit  his  pipe,  and  had  been  smoking  in  gloomy 
silence  for  some  time,  when  Mrs.  Sibley  re-entered.  Going 
to  the  dresser,  and  opening  a  drawer,  she  abstracted  a 


2i 8  DORSET  DEAR 

number  of  oranges,  nuts,  crackers,  and  other  such  wares, 
and  filled  her  apron  with  them. 

"  What  be  them  for  ?  "  inquired  the  sexton  diffidently. 

"Why,  they  be  surprises  for  the  childem,"  returned 
she. 

"Ah,"  rejoined  John  Foyle,  "surprises,  be  they?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Sibley,  "  they  do  look  for  'em  reg'lar, 
they  do.  I  do  always  fill  their  stockin's  wi'  'em  every 
Christmas." 

"Oh,"  said  the  sexton,  "put  their  surprises  in  their 
stockin's,  do  'ee?" 

Mrs.  Sibley  nodded  and  withdrew,  leaving  John  sunk  in 
profound  thought. 

"  This  'ere  be  a  vale  o'  tears,"  he  remarked  presently,  as 
he  knocked  the  ashes  out  of  his  pipe.  He  rose,  went  to 
the  table,  turned  up  the  lamp  a  little  more,  and  fetching 
pen,  ink  and  paper  from  the  window-sill  on  which  they 
usually  reposed,  sat  down  to  indite  a  letter.  It  cost  him 
much  labour  and  thought,  but,  after  all,  it  was  a  brief 
enough  document.  When  completed  it  ran  thus :  "  If  Mrs. 
Sibley  will  meet  Mr.  Foyle  in  the  churchyard  to-morrow 
morning  about  nine  o'clock  when  nobody's  about  she  will 
hear  of  something  to  your  advantage.  Yours  truly,  John 
Foyle." 

"  I  couldn't,"  said  the  sexton  to  himself,  "  put  the  ques- 
tion in  any  sort  of  public  way.  The  childern  is  in  and  out, 
and  the  neighbours  mid  pop  in.  The  churchyard  is  best 
and  most  nat'ral." 

He  folded  the  letter,  put  it  in  an  envelope,  and  ad- 
dressed it ;  then,  looking  round,  descried  hanging  over  a 


MRS.  SIBLEY  AND  THE  SEXTON  219 

chair-back  one  of  Mrs.  Sibley's  stockings — the  fellow  to 
the  one  she  had  lent  little  Rosanna. 

"  The  very  thing !  "  exclaimed  John.  "  The  Christmas 
surprises  do  always  go  in  stockin's.  It'll  be  a  surprise  for 
she,  I  d'  'low — not  but  what  she  didn't  look  for  it,"  he 
added  with  a  grim  chuckle. 

He  placed  the  letter  in  the  stocking,  fastened  it  securely 
with  a  loop  of  string,  and,  going  cautiously  upstairs,  slung 
it  over  Mrs.  Sibley's  door-handle.  He  paused  a  moment, 
winking  to  himself,  and  then  made  his  way  on  tiptoe  to 
his  own  room. 

The  usual  Christmas  bustle  and  excitement  prevailed  in 
the  little  household  next  morning.  The  children  ecstatic- 
ally compared  notes  over  their  fruit  and  toys  ;  the  sexton 
himself  was  quite  unaccountably  jovial,  with  a  nervous 
kind  of  joviality  nevertheless,  hardly  venturing  to  glance 
in  Mrs.  Sibley's  direction.  She,  on  her  side,  wore  a 
sedate,  not  to  say  chastened,  aspect,  and  was  attired  in 
her  deepest  "  weeds  ". 

Foyle's  jocularity  diminished  after  a  time,  and  he  set 
off  for  the  churchyard  in  a  depressed  and  uncomfortable 
frame  of  mind.  What  was  the  woman  driving  at — what 
more  in  the  name  of  goodness  could  she  want  ? 

He  paced  up  and  down  the  path  nearest  the  gate  for 
some  time,  and  then,  suddenly  recalling  the  fact  that  he 
had  not  yet  attended  to  the  stove  connected  with  the 
heating  apparatus  of  the  church,  hurried  off  to  accomplish 
this  duty. 

On  his  return  he  descried  a  tall  figure  in  black  making 
its  way,  not  towards  him,  but  towards  that  portion  of  the 


220  DORSET  DEAR 

churchyard  wherein   reposed  the   mortal  remains  of  the 
lamented  Mr.  Sibley. 

After  some  hesitation  the  sexton  followed,  and  Mrs. 
Sibley,  having  deposited  a  wreath  of  evergreens  on  the 
grave,  turned  round  with  a  mournful  expression. 

"  At  such  times  as  these,  Mr.  Foyle,"  she  remarked,  "  the 
mind  do  nat' rally  feel  m'urnful." 

"  True,  true !  "  agreed  the  sexton  uncomfortably. 

"  He  was  a  good  husband,  Mr.  Foyle,"  said  the  widow 
in  a  melancholy  tone. 

"To  be  sure,"  said  John  doubtfully. 

"  I  shall  never  look  upon  his  like  again,"  resumed  Mrs. 
Sibley,  shaking  her  head. 

The  sexton  glanced  from  her  disconsolate  face  to  the 
wreath  of  evergreens,  and  then  back  again.  Mrs.  Sibley 
was  still  shaking  her  head  with  an  air  of  gentle  resignation. 

"  I  think  I'll  be  goin',"  said  Mr.  Foyle  with  sudden  de- 
speration. "  I  thought  you  did  step  out  to  this  'ere  church- 
yard with  another  intention." 

Mrs.  Sibley  glanced  at  him  in  mild  surprise. 

"  Ye  didn't  chance  to  get  no  letter  this  marnin',  I 
s'pose  ? "  continued  the  sexton  with  some  heat. 

"  A  letter  !  "  repeated  Mrs.  Sibley. 

"  E-es,  the  letter  what  I  did  put  in  your  stockin'  for  a 
surprise,"  added  John  emphatically. 

Mrs.  Sibley's  melancholy  vanished  as  by  magic  ;  she 
smiled  on  the  sexton,  not  only  affably,  but  positively 
coyly. 

"  An'  it  was  a  surprise  !  she  exclaimed,  "  it  was  indeed. 
E-es,  Mr.  Foyle." 


MRS.  SIBLEY  AND  THE  SEXTON  221 

She  paused  again,  and  then,  all  scruples  apparently 
vanquished  by  the  delicacy  of  John's  attitude,  she  ex- 
tended a  bony  hand  from  beneath  the  folds  of  her  black 
shawl. 

"  That's  why  I'm  here,"  she  said. 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  WOODS. 

MONDAY. — Even  to  the  most  casual  observer  the  day  of 
the  week  would  have  been  announced  by  the  appearance 
of  the  rambling  village ;  the  new-budding  hedges  were 
remorselessly  weighted  with  household  gear,  fresh  from  the 
tub  ;  the  very  grassplots  were  whitened  with  the  same  ; 
but  the  gooseberry  bushes  were  as  yet  unadorned  with 
extraneous  trophies,  for  as  every  one  knows,  a  thrifty  rustic 
housewife  relegates  the  washing  and  "  getting  up  "  of  fine 
things  to  Tuesdays. 

The  orchard  of  that  popular  house  of  entertainment, 
known  as  "  The  Three  Choughs,"  the  weather-beaten  sign 
of  which  bore  the  partly  obliterated  presentment  of  a 
triplet  of  birds  unknown  to  naturalists — the  orchard  of 
"  The  Three  Choughs,"  I  say,  was  no  exception  to  the 
general  rule.  From  the  gnarled  branches  of  pear-  and 
plum  -  tree  depended  many  wavering  tokens  of  Mrs. 
Cluett's  industry  ;  the  clothes  lines  were  weighted  with  the 
like  ;  and  Alice,  her  rosy-cheeked  daughter,  went  periodi- 
cally to  and  fro  from  wash-house  to  hedge  with  a  basket 
poised  on  one  sturdy  hip,  or,  for  the  sake  of  variety,  set 
jauntily  aloft  on  her  curly  head. 

The  bar  was  left  to  take  care  of  itself;  at  that  hour 
callers  were  unlikely.  Noontide  was  past,  evening  had  not 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  WOODS  223 

yet  come  ;  if  any  stray  wagoner  or  chance  bicyclist  were 
in  need  of  refreshment  he  had  but  to  uplift  his  voice,  or  to 
knock  on  the  worn  panels  of  the  door  leading  from  the 
taproom  to  Mrs.  Cluett's  private  premises.  Many  succeed- 
ing generations  of  knuckles  had,  indeed,  removed  the  last 
vestige  of  paint  from  the  panels  in  question,  and  indued 
them  with  a  fine  mellow  tint  of  their  own. 

Nevertheless  Mrs.  Cluett  was  enjoying  herself  so  much 
in  the  midst  of  her  suds,  so  thoroughly  absorbed  in  soaping 
and  kneading  and  wringing,  that  such  a  summons  was 
thrice  repeated  without  effect ;  and  it  was  not  until  Alice, 
returning  from  one  of  her  expeditions  to  the  hedge,  chanced 
to  glance  casually  at  the  taproom  window  that  the  im- 
patient customer  contrived  to  attract  attention. 

Seeing  a  man's  face  peering  discontentedly  through 
the  latticed  panes,  and  hearing  a  corresponding  voice  re- 
peatedly shouting,  Alice  set  down  her  basket  and  hurried 
into  the  house. 

"  We  don't  often  have  no  one  callin'  at  this  time  o' 
day,"  she  remarked  with  a  pleasant  smile,  by  way  of 
greeting. 

The  man  gave  his  order  for  a  pint  of  beer  without 
noticing  the  intended  apology,  and  dropped  into  one  of 
the  wooden  chairs  allotted  to  customers. 

Alice  glanced  at  him  askance  as  she  set  jug  and  glass 
before  him.  A  tall  young  fellow,  not  more  than  twenty- 
five,  with  a  face  browned  by  sun  and  wind  till  it  was  as 
dark  as  a  gipsy's,  thick,  black  hair,  good  features,  and  the 
strangest  eyes  that  the  girl  had  ever  beheld  in  a  human 
face.  They  were  like  hawk's  eyes,  keen  and  clear,  and 


224  DORSET  DEAR 

with  that  fixed,  far-away  look  peculiar  to  the  eyes  of  a 
bird  or  beast  of  prey.  Yet  the  man's  face  was  not  a  cruel 
face,  and  by-and-by,  meeting  Alice's  questioning  gaze,  he 
smiled  hesitatingly. 

Alice  was  a  good  girl,  and  had  always  been  well  looked 
after  by  her  mother ;  but  it  was  part  of  the  business  of 
life,  as  she  conceived  it,  to  enter  frankly  into  conversation 
with  all  who  chanced  to  need  refreshment  at  "  The  Three 
Choughs ; "  and  she  was  interested  in  each,  from  the  oldest 
customer  to  the  latest  and  most  casual  caller. 

"  Where  be  come  from  ?  "  inquired  Alice,  now  propping 
herself  against  the  lintel  of  the  door,  and  surveying  the 
stranger  with  undisguised  curiosity. 

He  wore  corduroys  and  leggings,  and  yet  was  no  game- 
keeper ;  he  carried  a  small  bundle  and  a  sturdy  stick,  but 
she  felt  sure  that  he  was  not  a  tramp. 

He  jerked  his  thumb  over  his  shoulder,  looking  at  her 
for  a  moment  before  replying ;  his  words  came  at  last 
slowly,  as  though  he  were  unused  to  much  speech. 

"  Yonder,"  he  said,  "  Chudbury  way." 

Alice  glibly  ran  through  the  names  of  several  villages, 
with  an  interrogative  pause  after  each,  and  the  newcomer 
shook  his  head  in  every  case,  without,  however,  further 
attempting  to  enlighten  her. 

She  stopped  at  length,  evidently  at  a  loss,  and  the  man, 
setting  down  his  glass,  laughed  suddenly,  a  joyous,  good- 
humoured  laugh,  pleasant  to  hear. 

"  You  be  fair  beat,  my  maid,"  said  he.  "  But  I  do  'low 
you'd  not  be  so  very  much  the  wiser  if  I  was  to  tell  'ee. 
I  be  come  from  Tewley  Warren — that's  where  I  be  come 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  WOODS  225 

from."     He  dropped  his  voice  and  his  face  clouded  over. 
"  That's  where  I've  a-lived  all  my  life,"  he  added. 

"  Why  have  'ee  left  now,  then  ?"  inquired  Alice. 

"  I  didn't  leave  o'  my  own  free  will — ye  mid  be  sure  o' 
that,"  said  he. 

Alice  looked  up  inquiringly,  and  he  continued  after  a 
pause,  still  slowly  and  somewhat  hesitatingly,  as  though 
he  found  it  difficult  to  lay  hold  of  the  words  he  needed. 

"I  did  live  there  wi'  myx  wold  father ;  and  when  he 
shifted  to  the  New  House,  Squire  wasn't  willin1  for  I  to  go 
on  a-livin'  there.  He  did  want  our  place  for  one  o'  the 
keepers — a  married  man  wi'  a  fam'ly — he  didn't  hold,  he 
said,  wi'  lettin'  a  young  chap,  same  as  I,  bide  there — he 
did  turn  I  out — to  speak  plain." 

"Oh — h,"  said  Alice  commiseratingly.  "Twas  a  bit 
hard,  I  d'  'low." 

"  It  was  mortal  hard,"  said  he. 

He  raised  the  tumbler  of  beer  to  his  lips,  but  set  it  down 
again  untasted. 

"  To  give  Squire  his  due,"  he  said,  "  he  did  offer  to  keep 
I  on  for  the  same  money  what  I  did  have  when  the  wold 
man  were  livin',  but  I  wouldn't  have  it.  '  No,  sir,'  says  I, 
'  I  bain't  a-goin'  to  be  takin'  orders  in  the  place  where  I 
did  use  to  be  my  own  master ' — 'twas  jist  same  as  if  I 
was  my  own  master  when  my  father  were  alive ;  he  didn't 
never  interfere  wi'  I,  poor  wold  chap." 

It  was  perhaps  Alice's  fancy  that  a  momentaiy  dimness 
veiled  the  hawk  eyes — in  any  case  it  was  only  momentary. 

"So  here  I  be,"  summed  up  the  ex-warrener  conclu- 
sively. 

IS 


226  DORSET  DEAR 

"  Here  you  be,"  echoed  Alice ;  then,  after  a  moment's 
pause  :  "  What  be  goin'  to  do  now  ?  " 
"  I  don't  know,"  said  the  man. 

"  Where  be  goin'  to  ? " 

"  I  don't  know,"  he  said  again. 

At  this  moment  Mrs.  Cluett's  voice  was  heard  calling 
aloud  for  her  daughter ;  that  lady's  heavy  foot  presently 
sounded  in  the  narrow  passage  without,  and  she  burst  into 
the  room. 

"  Dear,  to  be  sure  !  Did  ever  a  body  see  such  a  maid  ? 
Us  so  busy  and  clothes  not  half  done  wi' !  And  here  ye 
must  stand  gawkin'  and  gossipin'  as  if  'twas  the  middle  of 
the  week.  There,  drink  up  your  beer,  do,  goodman,  and 
let's  ha'  done  wi'  it." 

She  addressed  these  words  to  the  new-comer  in  a  some- 
what softened  tone,  and  he  nodded  good-humouredly. 

"  All  right,  missus  ;  I'll  not  be  long  now,"  he  said,  as  he 
poured  out  his  second  glass. 

"  There,  for  shame,  mother,  let  the  poor  soul  take  his 
drink  in  peace,"  whispered  Alice.  "  He's  come  far — from 
Tewley  Warren ;  he've  a-been  turned  out  now  his  father 
be  dead." 

Mrs.  Cluett,  with  a  soapy  hand  on  either  hip,  surveyed 
the  young  man  curiously. 

"  I  did  use  to  know  Warrener  Baverstock  well,"  she  re- 
marked slowly.  "Warrener  Baverstock  up  to  Chudbury 
— e-es — I  did  use  to  know  en." 

"  He  were  my  father,"  remarked  the  other,  with  a  mo- 
mentary gleam  of  pleasure  in  his  eyes. 

"  He  did  use  to  come  here  often  and  often,"  continued 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  WOODS  2*7 

Mrs.  Cluett,  emphatically.  "  He'd  sit  there — as  mid  be 
where  you  be  a-sittin'  now — and  he'd  take  his  glass,  he 
would  ;  a  most  respectable  man  he  were.  My  poor  husband 
were  alive  too  in  them  days — ah,  times  is  changed,  bain't 
they  ?  Here  be  I,  a  poor  widow  woman  wi'  my  own  livin" 
to  get,  tho'  there's  them  as  did  ought  to  be  gettin1  it  for  I 
in  my  ancient  years." 

She  paused  to  shake  he/  head.  Young  Baverstock's 
attention  seemed  to  have  wandered  during  the  latter  part, 
of  her  speech,  and  he  sipped  his  ale  without  evincing  any 
curiosity  as  to  the  hint  she  had  recently  thrown  out.  After 
the  manner  of  her  kind,  however,  she  at  once  proceeded  to 
elucidate  it. 

"  'Tisn't  as  if  I  didn't  have  somebody  as  did  ought  to  be 
a-doin'  for  I.  There's  my  son — a  big,  strong,  hearty  chap 
— my  right  hand  he  did  use  to  be — there's  a  deal  to  be 
done  about  this  here  place,  ye  know." 

"  I  do  'low  there  is,"  agreed  Baverstock  absently. 

"'Tisn't  only  the  public,"  she  continued,  "tho'  I  d'  'low 
it  be  a  bit  hard  for  two  women  to  have  to  manage  all  they 
menfolk — but  there's  a  bit  of  a  farm  to  be  seen  to.  Well, 
when  I  say  a  farm  I  do  mean  a  couple  o'  cows  and  a  few 
pigs  and  chicken  and  that ;  and  we  do  always  grow  our 
own  spuds  and  greens,  you  know,  and  a  few  ranks  o' 
roots  to  help  out  wi'  for  the  cows  in  the  winter.  A  man 
be  wanted  for  all  that  kind  o'  work,  and  it  do  seem  hard 
as  I  should  have  to  throw  away  my  dibs  to  strangers 
when  I  mid  have  my  own  flesh  and  blood  a-workin'  for 
nothin'." 

"  It  do,"  agreed  Baverstock,  this  time  with  more  atten- 
IS* 


ai8  DORSET  DEAR 

tion.     "  Why   don't  your  son  do  it  then  ? "  he  inquired 
after  a  pause. 

"  Why  ? "  repeated  Mrs.  Cluett  in  a  tone  of  deep  disgust. 
"  Because  he've  a-been  and  gone  and  got  married — that's 
why,  the  unnat'ral  fellow,"  she  added  witheringly. 

The  young  man  surveyed  her  without  hazarding  a  re- 
mark ;  those  strange  eyes  of  his  remained  as  impassive  as 
ever,  but  the  corners  of  his  mouth  turned  slightly  upwards. 

"  I  warn't  a-goin'  to  let  en  bring  his  wife  here,"  continued 
the  old  woman.  "  I  didn't  never  fancy  her,  and  'twas 
again'  my  will  he  did  take  up  wi'  her.  '  You  don't  bring 
her  here,'  I  says. — '  Then  I  don't  stop  here,'  says  he.  'All 
right,  my  lad,'  says  I,  '  ye  can  march  ! '  So  he  marched. 
He  be  a-workin'  over  to  new  brewery  now — down  in  the 
town." 

Baverstock  apparently  considered  that  this  communica- 
tion called  for  no  comment ;  at  all  events  he  made  none. 

Mrs.  Cluett,  who  had  wrought  herself  up  to  the  point  of 
exposing  the  full  extent  of  her  grievances,  was  no  whit 
abashed  by  his  silence,  however,  and  continued  excitedly. 

"  The  menfolk — there !  they  do  seem  to  think  a  poor 
lone  'ooman  fit  for  nothin'  but  to  make  a  laughin'  stock  on. 
Dear  heart  alive,  'tis  enough  to  drive  a  body  silly !  Us 
can't  seem  to  find  a  decent  civil-spoke  chap  nowheres,  can 
us,  Alice  ?  The  minute  a  thing  is  not  to  their  likin'  up 
they  comes  wi'  their  sauce  and  their  impudence,  and  off 
they  goes." 

The  young  man  gazed  at  her  with  an  increasing  in- 
terest : — 

"  You  be  short-handed  now,  then,  be  ye  ? "  asked  he. 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  WOODS  229 

Mrs  Cluett  threw  back  her  head  with  an  ironical  laugh. 

"  Short-handed  !  We  be,  so  to  speak,  wi'out  no  hands 
at  all.  The  last  boy  as  worked  here  marched  off  o' 
Saturday.  Turned  up  his  nose  at  his  good  victuals,  and 
answered  I  back  when  I  spoke  my  mind  to  him  about  it. 
I'm  sure  I  don't  know  where  to  look  for  another.  And 
the  'taters  bain't  all  in  yet,  and  there's  such  a  deal  to  do 
in  this  here  place." 

Adam  Baverstock  pushed  back  his  chair  and  gazed  at 
her  for  a  moment  reflectively. 

"  I  do  'low  I  mid  serve-  your  turn  so  well  as  another," 
said  he,  in  a  calm  and  impartial  tone,  as  of  one  in  no  way 
concerned  in  the  issue. 

Mrs.  Cluett  surveyed  him  dubiously,  but  Alice  surrep- 
titiously nipped  her  mother's  elbow. 

"  Do  seem  to  be  a  likely  chap,"  she  murmured. 

Still  with  the  judicial  air  befitting  one  about  to  conclude 
a  bargain,  Mrs.  Cluett  put  various  questions  to  the  would- 
be  assistant,  her  countenance  brightening  perceptibly  as  she 
ascertained  that  he  had  some  knowledge  of  the  manage- 
ment of  cows,  his  father  having  kept  one  during  the  latter 
years  of  his  life,  that  he  knew  all  about  pigs,  that  he  didn't 
care  what  he  turned  his  hand  to,  and  that  he  was  by  no 
means  particular  in  the  matter  of  wages. 

"  I  don't  seem  to  know  what  to  do  next,"  he  explained. 
"  I  mid  be  lookin'  about  me  here,  and  I  could  fill  in  the 
time  till  you  can  light  upon  a  man  to  your  likin'.  There's 
one  thing,"  he  added  with  that  flicker  of  the  lip  which 
Alice  had  noted  before,  "  I  bain't  one  as  'ull  ever  give  ye 
impudence — I  bain't  one  as  cares  for  much  talk — I  bain't 


230  DORSET  DEAR 

used  to  it,  d'ye  see.  The  wold  man  and  me — there ! 
There  was  weeks  when  we  didn't  so  much  as  give  each 
other  the  time  o'  day." 

"  Dear,  to  be  sure !  To  think  o'  that  now,"  said  Alice, 
whose  tongue  was  wont  to  wag  pretty  freely.  "  Wasn't  it 
terr'ble  lonesome  for  ye  ?  " 

"  I  didn't  ever  feel  it  so,"  returned  Adam,  "  there's  a  deal 
o'  company  in  the  woods,  and  company  as  don't  want 
talkin'  to,"  he  added  with  a  laugh. 

Mrs.  Cluett  now  proceeded  to  enter  into  practical  details. 
Adam's  bundle  contained,  it  seemed,  all  his  worldly  goods, 
a  large  wardrobe  having  been  considered  unnecessary  in 
Tewley  Warren,  and  such  few  sticks  of  furniture  as  the 
old  man  possessed  having  been  purchased  by  his  successor. 
He  was  therefore  unhampered  by  any  great  need  for  space 
in  his  new  quarters ;  yet  he  looked  round  the  attic  assigned 
to  him  with  a  clouded  face,  noting  which,  his  mistress  sar- 
castically inquired  if  he  didn't  find  it  big  enough. 

"  Oh,  'tis  big  enough,"  he  returned  ;  "  big  enough  if  a 
man  can  breathe  in  it." 

He  opened  the  tiny  casement,  and  looked  out  :— 

"  I  can  see  one  tree,"  he  exclaimed,  in  a  tone  of  relief. 

"  And  what  mid  ye  want  with  trees  ? "  she  inquired. 
"  You  won't  need  to  be  lookin'  out  much  when  ye've  a-had 
a  proper  good  day's  work." 

And  thereupon,  informing  him  that  it  was  time  to 
"  sarve  pigs,"  and  directing  him  as  to  the  whereabouts  of 
the  meal-bucket,  she  descended  to  her  own  long  neglected 
wash-tub. 

Alice,  however,  still  lingered  in  the  passage,  and  ob- 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  WOODS  231 

served  that,  as  Adam  took  off  his  coat  preparatory  to 
setting  to  work,  he  paused,  with  an  odd  little  laugh  to 
himself. 

"  I  was  near  forgetting  you,"  said  he,  peering  into  one  of 
its  capacious  pockets  and  apparently  addressing  something 
inside. 

"  What  have  ye  got  there  ?  "  inquired  Alice. 

Adam  carefully  hung  up  the  coat  on  a  nail,  thrust  his 
hand  into  the  pocket  aforesaid,  and  produced  a  very  small 
rabbit — a  little  furry  ball  with  downy  semi-transparent  ears 
and  bright  beady  eyes. 

"  I  had  to  bring  he  along  of  I,"  he  explained,  as  he 
stroked  the  little  creature  which  sat  quite  contentedly  in 
his  brown  palm. 

"  How  did  you  make  en  so  tame  ? "  asked  Alice. 

"  I've  had  en  nigh  upon  a  week  now.  Tis  thanks  to  I 
he  warn't  made  a  stoat's  breakfast  on.  They  stoats — they 
be  terr'ble  varmint.  I  be  always  on  the  lookout  for  'em. 
Well,  this  here  little  chap  was  bein'  dragged  along  by  a 
big  'un  when  I  chanced  to  spy  the  pair  of  'em.  I  made 
an  end  of  Maister  Stoat  and  I  did  take  the  little  'un  home- 
along.  He  couldn't  feed  hisself,  poor  little  thing,  but  we 
made  shift,  didn't  us,  little  'un  ?  There,  he  can  drink  out 
of  a  teaspoon  so  sensible  as  a  Christian." 

"  Do  'ee  let  I  give  en  a  drap  o'  milk  now,"  cried  Alice 
eagerly. 

The  little  rabbit  justified  his  owner's  proud  assertion, 
and  after  refreshing  himself  in  the  manner  indicated,  was 
comfortably  stowed  away  in  a  hay-lined  basket. 

I  were  pure  glad  to  bring  he  along  of  I,"  said  Adam, 


232  DORSET  DEAR 

for  the  nonce  communicative ;  "  he'll  mind  me  o'  the 
woods,  d'ye  see.  And  I've  a-brought  these,  too." 

Thrusting  his  hand  inside  his  waistcoat  he  brought  out 
a  few  young  fir  shoots,  green  and  tender,  and  deliciously 
aromatic  as  he  bruised  them  with  his  strong  fingers. 

"  Smell !  "  he  exclaimed,  thrusting  them  suddenly  under 
Alice's  pretty  little  freckled  nose. 

She  sniffed,  and  remarked  without  enthusiasm  that  it 
was  a  nice  smell  enough. 

"  There's  n'ar  another  like  it,"  said  Adam  gruffly  ;  and 
replacing  them  in  his  bosom  he  strode  away  to  attend  to 
the  wants  of  the  pigs. 

Decidedly  the  new  man-of-all-work  at  the  Three  Choughs 
was  a  queer  fellow ;  all  who  came  to  the  place  agreed  in 
this  estimate  of  him.  He  worked  well,  but  yet,  as  Mrs. 
Cluett  frequently  averred,  as  if  "  he  didn't  have  no  heart 
in  it "  ;  he  was  steady,  civil,  and  obliging  enough,  but  so 
silent,  so  unaccountably  silent,  that  the  regular  visitors  to 
the  little  inn  could  make  nothing  of  him. 

The  only  person  who  could  ever  induce  him  to  talk  was 
Alice  Cluett,  and  then  it  was  at  rare  moments,  and  upon 
odd,  and,  to  her,  uninteresting  topics. 

One  evening  he  called  out  to  her  excitedly  as  she  was 
crossing  the  little  yard,  declaring  that  he  smelt  the  dew. 

Alice  paused  beside  him,  inhaling  the  sweet  air  of  the 
spring  dusk  with  inquiring  nostrils. 

"  They've  a-been  mowin'  over  t'  Rectoiy  to-day,"  said 
she,  "  I  see'd  gardener  gettin'  the  machine  out — 'tis  the  first 
time  this  spring.  'Tis  the  cut  grass  what  you  do  smell 
I  do  'low." 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  WOODS  233 

"  Nay,"  cried  Adam  eagerly,  "  'tis  the  dew.  Who's  to 
know  it  so  well  as  me,  my  maid  ?  Haven't  I  stood  and 
smelt  it  time  and  again  yonder  in  the  woods  at  Chudbury  ? 
'Tis  the  dew  on  the  young  leaves  and  the  noo  grass.  I 
used  to  tramp  it  down,  and  then  stan'  still  to  smell  it.  The 
Warren  must  be  look  in'  fine  now." 

Even  in  the  dusk  she  could  see  his  eyes  dilate,  and  that 
tell-tale  mouth  of  his  curl  upwards. 

"  And  there's  scarce  a  tree^  to  be  seen  here,"  he  sighed 
presently. 

"Lard,"  said  practical  Alice,  "what  a  man  you  be, 
Adam !  There's  plenty  o'  things  more  worth  lookin'  at 
than  trees,  I  d'  'low.  There's  fields  wi'  the  crops  comin' 
on  so  nice,  and  the  river,  and  the  road  wi'  all  the  folks' 
traps  an'  carts  and  wagons,  and  there's  the  gardens  wi' 
flowers  and  'taters  and  everything,  and  there's  men  and 
women,  an' — an'  maids,"  she  added,  tilting  her  chin  saucily. 

Adam  brought  back  his  eyes  from  the  distant  vision 
upon  which  they  had  been  feasting  to  another  vision  nearer 
at  hand,  and  his  face  relaxed. 

"  Ah,  there's  maids,"  he  agreed.  "  I  never  knowed  any 
maid  afore  I  knowed  you,  Alice.  There's  times  when 

He  broke  off  suddenly. 

"  There's  times  when — what  ?  "  she  inquired  with  interest. 

"  I  could  a'most  be  glad  sometimes  that  I  did  come  away 
from  the  Warren,"  said  he.  "  I'm  glad  to  know  ye,  Alice." 

"Oh,  and  are  ye?"  rejoined  she  with  a  somewhat 
tremulous  laugh. 

"  E-es,"  returned  Adam  reflectively,  "  I've  see'd  maids 
now  and  then  when  I  did  use  to  come  down  to  buy  a  few 


234  DORSET  DEAR 

little  oddments  in  the  town,  but  I  never  took  no  notice  of 
them — I  never  knowed  any  of  them.  I  be  glad  to  know 
you,  Alice." 

Alice  made  no  answer.  She  picked  a  leaf  from  the 
hedge  and  chewed  it.  Had  it  not  been  so  dark  Adam 
might  have  noticed  the  sudden  rush  of  colour  that  over- 
spread her  face. 

"  The  chaps  hereabouts  do  often  seem  to  go  out  a-walkin' 
wi'  maids,"  resumed  Adam.  "  I  were  a-thinkin' — you  and 
me  mid  go  a-walkin'  sometimes." 

"  We  mid,"  she  agreed. 

"  Sunday,  maybe  ? "  suggested  Adam,  with  a  sudden 
note  of  exultation  in  his  voice.  "If  you  could  get  off  for 
a  good  long  bit,  Alice,  we  mid  step  up  to  Oakleigh  Woods. 
I  haven't  been  there  yet,  but  they  do  tell  I  they're 
splendid." 

"They're  nice  enough,"  said  Alice,  somewhat  dubiously. 
"  We'll  have  to  see  what  mother  says,"  she  added. 

"  Do  ye  ax  her  then,"  suggested  Adam. 

Alice  moved  away  from  him,  and  glanced  back  over 
her  shoulder. 

"  Maybe  I  will,"  said  she. 

Mrs.  Cluett,  on  being  consulted,  was  at  first  doubtful 
and  inclined  to  be  irate. 

"  This  do  seem  like  coortin',"  she  remarked  severely. 

Alice  twisted  the  corner  of  her  apron  without  replying. 
It  certainly  did  look  rather  like  courting. 

"  Be  you  and  that  chap  thinking  o'  bein'  sweethearts  ? " 
resumed  Mrs.  Cluett. 

Alice  raised  defiant  dark  eyes  :  "  Twouldn't  be  no  such 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  WOODS  235 

very  great  harm  if  we  was,"  she  returned.  "  He  be  a 
likely  chap,  Adam  be ;  he've  a-got  a  few  pounds  laid  by, 
and  if  him  an'  me  was  to  make  a  match  of  it  you  wouldn't 
need  to  pay  en  no  wage." 

This  was  a  practical  aspect  of  the  affair  which  had  not 
hitherto  struck  Mrs.  Cluett ;  her  countenance  relaxed. 

"  But  he  haven't  axed  I  yet,"  said  Alice  discreetly. 

Mrs.  Cluett  drew  a  long  breath. 

"  Well  I  haven't  got  no  objections  to  your  walking  out 
wi'  he  on  Sunday,  my  dear,"  she  remarked  condescend- 
ingly >  and  Alice  dropped  her  apron  and  went  away 
smiling. 

Sunday  came,  and  the  pair  duly  set  forth,  Mrs.  Cluett 
watching  their  departure  from  the  kitchen  window,  not 
without  some  elation,  for  indeed  her  maid  was,  as  she  said 
to  herself,  a  fine  piece,  and  Adam,  as  he  strode  along  by 
her  side,  was  "  so  well  set-up  as  a  granadier  ". 

Alice  chattered  away  gaily  while  they  walked,  tucking 
up  her  pretty  blue  skirt  to  show  her  starched  white  petti- 
coat, while  her  curly  head,  under  its  rose-crowned  hat, 
turned  this  way  and  that  as  they  passed  friends  and 
neighbours.  Other  heads  turned  to  gaze  after  her,  and 
many  jests  and  laughs  were  exchanged,  and  not  a  few  sly 
innuendos  as  to  the  possible  outcome  of  events.  Alice  would 
laugh  and  blush  then,  and  glance  surreptitiously  at  Adam  ; 
but  the  ex-warrener  was  more  taciturn  even  than  usual  that 
day,  and  though  his  face  wore  a  contented  expression,  he 
appeared  to  take  little  heed  of  his  surroundings. 

Presently  the  girl  became  silent,  and  by-and-by  dis- 
tinctly cross ;  she  lagged  a  little  behind  Adam ;  once  or 


136  DORSET  DEAR 

twice  she  stumbled,  and  once  paused,  having  tripped  over 
a  stone. 

"  What  be  to  do  ? "  inquired  Adam,  bringing  down  his 
eyes  all  at  once  from  the  horizon,  where  the  irregular  parti- 
coloured lines  of  Oakleigh  Wood  had  hitherto  held  his  gaze. 

"  You  do  walk  so  fast,"  complained  Alice,  "and  the  road 
be  so  rough — and — "  in  a  still  more  aggrieved  tone — "  all 
the  other  boys  and  maids  what  we  do  meet  be  a-walkin' 
arm-in-crook." 

"  Come,"  said  Adam  diffidently,  "  us  can  do  that  too,  I 
suppose." 

Alice  curved  her  arm,  and  he,  after  a  little  practice,  sup- 
ported her  elbow  in  the  recognised  fashion  prescribed  for 
courting-folk.  He  looked  down  at  her  with  a  softened 
expression  as  they  advanced  afresh. 

"  Be  enjoying  of  yourself,  my  maid  ?  "  he  inquired. 

"  E-es,"  returned  Alice  dubiously.     "  Be  you  ? " 

"  Jist  about ! "  said  Adam,  at  which  she  brightened 
visibly. 

They  now  turned  off  the  dusty  road  that  for  the  last 
half-mile  had  climbed  up  almost  perpendicularly,  with  the 
downs  rolling  away  on  one  side  and  a  carefully  enclosed  fir 
plantation  skirting  it  on  the  other.  A  sheep-track  that 
presently  lost  itself,  wound  away  over  the  downs  between 
patches  of  grass  and  low-growing  thorn  and  elder  bushes 
to  where  Oakleigh  Wood  spread  its  exquisite,  undulating 
length  invitingly  before  them.  Adam  quickened  his  pace  ; 
his  whole  face  lightened  and  brightened  in  a  manner  of 
which  it  had  not  hitherto  seemed  capable ;  presently  he 
began  to  sing  in  a  rich  ringing  joyous  voice,  and  Alice, 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  WOODS  237 

clutching  at  his  arm  to  stay  his  progress,  exclaimed  in 
amazement : — 

"  You  do  seem  quite  another  man  to-day ! "  she  cried 
half  petulantly. 

"  I  d'  'low  I  be  another  man,"  answered  he.  "  Let's  run, 
maidie,  let's  run.  Let's  get  there." 

He  caught  her  by  the  hand,  and  the  girl,  infected  by 
his  excitement,  raced  with  him  at  her  topmost  speed.  Off 
they  flew  over  the  springing  turf  and  only  paused,  laughing, 
when  they  reached  the  shelter  of  the  belt  of  firs  which 
stood  at  the  outskirts  of  the  wood.  The  cool  green  fra- 
grance was  refreshing  after  that  breathless  race  in  the  fierce 
sunshine  ;  Alice's  eyes  were  dancing  and  her  heart  leaping, 
but  Adam  had  suddenly  become  grave  again ;  when  he 
spoke  it  was  in  a  subdued  voice  almost  as  if  he  were  in 
church,  the  girl  thought.  Nevertheless  he  looked  very 
tenderly  at  her  as  he  touched  her  lightly  on  the  shoulder. 

"  Now,  maidie,"  said  he,  "  I  be  goin'  to  show  ye  such 
things  as  ye  did  never  see  in  your  life — I  be  a-goin'  to  let 
ye  into  a  few  of  the  secrets  o'  this  place." 

"  Ye've  never  been  here  yourself  afore,"  protested  Alice. 

"  I  know  'em  all  the  same,"  returned  Adam.  "  I  do 
know  all  about  woods.  A  squirrel,  see !  Look  yon." 

"Where?"  whispered  Alice. 

"  On  the  big  crooked  branch  there.  Keep  still,  and 
he'll  come  nigh  us." 

As  they  stood  motionless  the  little  creature  did  indeed 
come  frolicking  downwards  from  bough  to  bough,  pausing 
to  glance  at  them,  leaping  away  in  feigned  terror,  returning 
for  closer  inspection,  then,  evidently  deciding  that  they 


238  DORSET  DEAR 

were  not,  and  could  never  have  been,  alive,  and  were,  in 
consequence,  not  dangerous,  sitting  up,  chattering,  a  yard 
or  two  above  their  heads.  He  was  presently  joined  by  a 
friend,  or  it  might  be  a  rival ;  a  lively  discussion  ensued,  a 
mad  scamper,  a  protracted  chase,  the  two  finally  disappear- 
ing in  the  inner  depths  of  the  wood. 

"  Let's  go,"  said  Alice. 

She  had  been  amused  and  interested,  but  felt  neverthe- 
less somewhat  disappointed.  This  was  the  strangest  court- 
ing she  had  ever  heard  of :  it  seemed  hardly  worth  while 
to  have  walked  three  miles  on  a  Sunday  afternoon  merely 
to  watch  the  antics  of  a  couple  of  squirrels.  But  Adam 
was  perfectly  happy ;  for  the  first  time  since  he  had  left 
the  Warren  he  found  himself  in  his  element  and  at  ease. 

"  If  you  do  know  how  to  treat  'em,  birds  and  beasts  is 
tame  enough,"  he  remarked.  "  There,  the  very  varmint 
'ull  be  friendly  wi'  you.  There  was  a  wold  weasel  yonder 
in  the  Warren  what  did  use  to  have  reg'lar  games  wi'  me. 
He  knowed  I  were  arter  him,  d'ye  see,  and  he  were  that 
cunnin'  he  did  lead  I  a  dance  for  months  and  months.  I 
do  'low  the  creature  'j'yed  it.  When  I  did  take  en  out  o' 
the  gin  at  last  he  did  grin  up  in  my  face  as  if  he  were  a- 
sayin'  '  ye  be  upsides  wi'  me  at  last,  wold  chap  ! ' — I  could 
a'most  have  found  it  in  my  heart  to  let  him  go,  but  I 
dursn't,  along  o'  my  father.  Hush,  look  ! " 

A  green  woodpecker  was  climbing  up  the  tree  near 
which  they  had  halted  ;  the  pair  watched  him  until  he 
took  wing,  and  then  pursued  their  way.  Alice's  heart  was 
sinking  more  and  more  ;  she  yawned  once  or  twice  in  a 
frank,  undisguised  way,  and  walked  ever  more  slowly. 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  WOODS 


239 


"  Hark  ! "  cried  Adam  jubilantly,  "  the  cuckoo.  Tis  the 
first  time  I've  heard  en — he  be  late  to-year." 

"  Have  ye  got  any  money  about  ye  ? "  inquired  Alice 
eagerly.  "  Turn  it  round  quick,  if  ye  have." 

"  What  for  ? :) 

"  Why,  for  luck,  sure.  Didn't  ye  know  that  ?  You 
must  turn  your  money  first  time  you  do  hear  cuckoo  cry 
so  as  you'll  have  plenty  more  to-year." 

Adam's  fingers  dropped  from  the  waistcoat  pocket  where 
they  had  been  vaguely  fumbling. 

"  What's  money  to  me  ? "  he  muttered,  as,  with  head 
thrown  back  and  brows  frowning  with  eagerness,  he  fol- 
lowed the  course  of  certain  black  specks  which  at  that 
moment  were  flying  high  over  the  wood. 

"  Wild  duck  ! "  he  remarked  presently. 

Alice  turned  on  him  in  desperation. 

"Well,  I  be  a-goin'  for  to  sit  down,"  she  remarked. 
"  I've  a-brought  a  bit  o'  summat  to  eat  wi'  me." 

She  produced  from  the  little  basket  which  she  had  car- 
ried sundiy  slices  of  cake  which  she  offered  to  Baverstock. 

"  I  did  bring  seed-cake  a-purpose  because  you  did  say 
you  liked  it  best,"  she  observed  in  an  expectant  tone.  But 
Adam's  dark  eyes  continued  to  rove  even  while  he  ate, 
and  his  only  response  was  inconsequent  enough  : — 

"  Don't  it  taste  good  out  o'  door  ?  " 

Alice  edged  away  from  him  and  munched  in  silence, 
and  presently  tears  of  mortification  welled  into  her  eyes. 
Adam,  returning  on  tiptoe  from  a  cautious  expedition  to 
inspect  a  nuthatch's  nest  in  the  hole  of  a  tree,  suddenly 
took  note  of  her  woeful  expression,  and  paused  aghast. 


240  DORSET  DEAR 

"  What  be  cryin'  for,  maidie  ? "  he  asked  in  so  kind  a 
tone,  that  the  tears  rolled  down  upon  her  cheeks,  and  a 
little  unexpected  sob  burst  forth. 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  murmured ;  then,  petulantly :  "  I 
wish  I  hadn't  come ! " 

Adam's  face  fell. 

"Don't  'ee  like  being  here?  I  thought  ye'd  be  so 
pleased." 

The  sense  of  injury  now  overcame  maidenly  reserve. 

"  You  do  never  say  a  word  to  I.  You  don't  so  much 
as  look  at  I.  I  mid  be  a  stock  or  a  stone,"  she  added 
passionately. 

Adam  surveyed  her  with  dawning  comprehension  ;  dur- 
ing the  silence  that  intervened  the  rustling  of  the  leaves 
could  be  heard,  the  distant  notes  of  a  lark  circling  upwards 
from  the  downs  beyond  the  woods,  the  chirp  of  nestlings, 
the  irrepressible  laughter  of  a  gleeful  squirrel.  Perhaps  all 
this  cheerful  bustle  of  the  sunshiny  spring  awoke  in 
the  man's  breast  certain  hitherto  dormant  instincts.  He, 
too,  was  young,  and  love  and  springtime  go  hand-in-hand. 
He  stooped,  laid  a  tentative  forefinger  gently  under  Alice's 
round  chin,  tilted  it  slightly,  and  gazed  down  into  the 
tearful  eyes. 

"  Ye  mustn't  ciy,  my  maid,"  said  he,  and  then  he  kissed 
her. 

They  came  out  of  the  wood  as  the  sun  was  sinking, 
hand-in-hand  as  before,  but  walking  sedately  now,  and 
with  a  glow  upon  their  faces  other  than  the  glow  which 
was  dying  the  fir-boles  crimson,  and  making  the  gorse 
flame. 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  WOODS  241 

Alice  was  in  the  seventh  heaven,  and  as  for  Adam,  per- 
haps he  too  had  learnt  a  new  secret  in  the  greenwood, 
the  existence  of  which  had  been  hitherto  unguessed. 

"  Well  ? "  said  Mrs.  Cluett  as  the  couple  parted  by  the 
yard  door. 

"  Well,"  returned  Alice,  with  a  conscious  laugh. 

"  You  do  seem  to  be  gettin'  along,"  pursued  the  mother. 

"  E-es,  we  be  gettin'  along,"  conceded  Alice,  but  no  more 
would  she  say. 

She  was  subsequently  forced  to  own  to  herself,  however, 
that  they  did  not  get  on  very  fast.  Adam  was  incompre- 
hensible to  her,  and  frequently  exasperating;  and  more 
than  once  he  seemed  puzzled  and  irritated  by  things  that 
Alice  said  and  did.  Mrs.  Cluett,  for  her  part,  blamed 
them  both  with  equal  impartiality.  Now  she  would  aver 
that  Alice  was  a  simpleton,  now  that  Adam  was  a  fool. 
Was  the  thing  to  be  or  was  it  not  to  be  ?  she  wanted  to 
know ;  even  if  it  was  to  be  Mrs.  Cluett  was  not  sure  that 
she  cared  so  veiy  much  about  it ;  but  if  it  was  not  to 
be,  there  was  no  manner  of  use  in  Alice  wasting  her 
time. 

Meanwhile  the  couple  walked  together  frequently,  talked 
little,  and  quarrelled  more  than  once.  On  that  warm  June 
night,  for  instance,  when  Adam,  rolling  himself  in  his 
blanket,  stretched  himself  in  the  orchard  to  sleep  under 
the  stars,  Alice's  indignation  was  to  the  full  as  great  as 
her  mother's ;  while  the  day  the  girl  refused  Adam's  offer 
of  pine-cones  for  her  fire,  on  the  ground  that  they  popped 
like  pistols  and  smelt  of  turpentine,  her  lover's  resentment 

had  flashed  forth  in  words  fierce  and  strong. 

16 


24.2  DORSET  DEAR 

"  You  do  never  seem  to  care  for  the  things  what  I  like," 
he  summed  up. 

To  each  the  other  was  an  unknown  quantity ;  the 
mutual  attraction  was  almost  counterbalanced  by  a  shyness 
begotten  of  the  knowledge  of  being  misunderstood. 

The  crisis  came  one  summer's  night — a  night  long  re- 
membered in  the  village,  for  there  broke  such  a  storm 
over  the  land  as  had  not  been  known,  the  old  folks  said, 
since  the  days  of  their  childhood.  A  brooding  and  op- 
pressive stillness  reigned  at  first,  and  then  came  lightning 
that  seemed  to  split  the  heavens,  and  thunder  that  roared 
like  a  thousand  menacing  cannons.  Alice  sat  crouched  in 
a  corner  with  a  face  as  white  as  a  sheet  and  her  fingers  in 
her  ears ;  and  Mrs.  Cluett  hurried  round  the  house,  closing 
doors  and  windows,  and  fastening  shutters.  As  she  was 
about  to  shut  the  door  leading  to  the  yard,  a  sudden  flash 
revealed  to  her  a  motionless  figure  standing  without,  a  few 
paces  away. 

"  Dear  heart  alive !     'Tis  never  you,  Adam." 

She  had  seen  his  face  transfigured  in  the  momentary 
gleam,  the  eyes  exultant,  the  lips  parted  in  rapture. 

"  Isn't  it  grand  ? "  came  Adam's  voice,  tremulous  with 
excitement,  as  the  darkness  enfolded  him  once  more,  and 
the  mystic  artillery  crashed  over  their  heads. 

"  The  chap's  daft ! "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Cluett.  "  Come  in 
this  minute.  You'll  be  struck  dead  afore  me  eyes.  We 
don't  want  no  carpses  in  the  house,  do  us,  Alice  ? " 

But  Alice  made  no  response. 

"  Lard  save  us  ! "  ejaculated  Mrs.  Cluett,  as  a  new  flash 
lit  up  all  the  surrounding  countiy,  revealing  the  cattle 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  WOODS  243 

huddled  together  in  the  adjacent  fields,  the  hedges,  the 
trees,  Adam's  face,  eager,  enraptured,  as  before.  She 
darted  out  and  seized  him  by  the  arm. 

"  Come  in,  I  tell  "ee,"  she  cried.  "  I'll  not  have  ye 
standing  there  no  more." 

As  he  turned  towards  her  half-dazed,  she  dragged  him 
in,  and  had  shut  and  bolted  the  door  before  he  recovered 
his  wits.  The  air  was  stifling  inside  the  house  ;  the  paraffin 
lamp  reeked  ;  the  gusts  of  storm-wind  which  arose  every 
now  and  then  puffed  volumes  of  acrid  wood-smoke  down 
the  chimney. 

"  A  man  mid  choke  here,"  growled  Adam. 

"  To  bed  wi'  ye  then  ! "  cried  Mrs.  Cluett  indignantly. 
"  Us  be  a-goin'  too — 'tis  late  enough." 

She  took  up  the  lamp  as  she  spoke,  and  roused  Alice  by 
a  jerk  of  the  sleeve.  Adam  went  creaking  upstairs,  and 
threw  himself  dressed  upon  his  bed.  The  atmosphere  of 
his  little  attic-room,  sun-baked  as  it  had  been  through  all 
that  breathless  day,  was  like  that  of  a  furnace  ;  he  felt  his 
brain  reel  and  was  oppressed  almost  to  suffocation.  The 
storm  continued,  flash  after  flash  playing  on  his  narrow 
window ;  he  could  see  the  tip  of  his  one  fir-tree,  now 
motionless,  transfixed  as  it  were,  now  swaying  in  a  puff  of 
wind  that  died  away  as  suddenly  as  it  came. 

The  house  was  very  silent  now,  and  permeated  by  the 
odour  of  Mrs.  Cluett's  recently  extinguished  lamp.  Adam 
sat  up  gasping.  He  thought  of  the  Warren — of  the  close- 
growing  trees  stretching  away  about  the  free  and  happy 
man  who  dwelt  beneath  them.  Once  he,  too,  had  stood 

with  the  woods  wrapping  him  round,  and   the   stars  of 

16* 


244  DORSET  DEAR 

heaven  over  his  head.  Tewley  must  look  grand  to-night. 
As  he  thought  of  it  the  dark  shadowy  forms  of  the  trees 
seemed  to  press  upon  him  ;  he  could  hear  their  deep 
breathing,  and  share  their  expectancy. 

Ha  !  there  was  a  flash.  How  it  would  light  up  the 
beeches  and  play  among  the  pines.  Now  the  thunder !  it 
would  roar  and  reverberate  among  those  billowing  trees. 
The  rain  would  come  soon.  First  there  would  be  a  rush 
of  wind,  and  ash  and  oak  and  beech  would  rustle  and 
shiver,  and  the  larches  sway  down  all  their  slender  length. 
And  then,  while  the  trees  were  bending  and  rocking,  the 
rain  would  come — the  cold,  heavy,  glorious  rain.  Adam 
caught  his  breath  as  he  thought  of  it — howr  it  would  come 
down,  hissing  among  the  leaves,  splashing  on  the  hot 
ground  !  How  good  the  wet  earth  would  smell,  every 
strand  of  moss  and  fibre  of  grass  adding  its  own  spicy 
fragrance. 

He  leaped  from  his  bed  and  almost  at  the  same  moment 
the  tree  outside  his  window  was  caught  by  a  whirling  wind 
and  snapped.  Then  something  seemed  to  snap,  too,  in 
Adam's  brain  and  he  laughed  aloud.  What  was  he  doing 
there,  in  that  suffocating  room,  when  he  was  free  to  go 
that  moment,  if  he  chose,  to  Tewley  Woods  ?  What 
should  hold  him  back — what  should  keep  him  ?  If  he 
made  haste  he  might  yet  reach  the  Warren  in  time  for  the 
rain. 

In  another  moment  he  was  out  of  the  house,  and  when 
the  next  flash  of  lightning  came  it  revealed  a  flying  figure 
scudding  along  the  whiteness  of  the  road. 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  WOODS  245 

Alice  cried  bitterly  over  the  defection  of  her  wild  man 
of  the  woods,  but  she  consoled  herself  in  time,  and  took  a 
mate  more  to  her  mind,  a  practical  person  who  sowed 
cabbages  in  the  flower-border,  and  considered  the  view  of 
the  new  brewery  the  finest  in  the  neighbourhood. 

But  Adam  Baverstock  had  passed  for  ever  out  of  her 
life ;  as  silently  as  he  had  come  from  the  shadow  of  the 
trees  into  the  spring  sunshine,  so  had  he  vanished  in  the 
summer  storm. 


THE  HOME-COMING  OF  DADA. 

"  I  KNEW  he  was  bound  to  be  one  of  the  first,"  said  Mrs. 
Bunce  triumphantly.  "  Why,  he've  a-been  out  there  ever 
since  the  war  broke  out.  Two  year  and  seven  month 
he've  a-been  there — and  the  hardships  he's  been  through, 
and  the  fightin'  he's  done  !  There,  I  can't  think  how  ever 
the  Government  had  the  heart  to  keep  en  out  so  long." 

"There's  others  what  have  been  out  jist  same  as  he 
have,"  returned  her  neighbour  plaintively.  "  My  Jan  now 
— such  a  good  boy  as  he  be,  too  ! — well,  he've  a-been  out 
there  months  and  months,  and  he've  a-been  in  hospital ! " 

"As  for  fightin',"  put  in  the  shrewd-faced  little  man 
who  formed  the  third  party  to  the  discussion,  and  whose 
opinion  carried  weight  in  the  neighbourhood,  for  his  voca- 
tion of  earner  enabled  him  to  pick  up  many  items  of  news 
during  his  daily  round,  "  as  for  fightin',  Mrs  Bunce,  I  don't 
mean  to  make  little  o'  your  husband,  but  there  bain't 
nothin'  wonderful  about  him  doin'  a  lot  o'  fightin'.  They 
all  done  that — 'twas  what  they  were  sent  out  for,  and  not 
a  bit  more  credit  to  any  of  'em  nor  for  me  to  go  joggin' 
along  behind  the  wold  horse  here." 

Both  women  reddened,  and  turned  upon  him  angrily. 

"If  ye  do  think  such  things,  ye  did  ought  to  be  ashamed 

to  say  'em,"  cried  Mrs.  Andrews.     "  'Eroes — 'tis  what  they 

246 


THE  HOME-COMING  OF  DADA  247 

be  every  man  of  'em,  Mr.  Bright ;  and  you  did  ought  to 
know  it,  seein'  as  'twas  wrote  up  plain  over  the  very  Corn 
Exchange  the  day  as  peace  was  declared.  '  All  Honour 
to  Our  'Eroes,'  it  said,  in  them  little  coloured  lamps  so 
'andsome  as  it  could  be ;  and  bain't  there  a  song  about 
'  they're  'eroes  every  one '  ?  " 

"And  I'm  sure  ye  can't  say,"  chimed  in  little  Mrs. 
Bunce,  nodding  her  curly  head  emphatically,  "  as  it  be  the 
same  thing  for  a  man  to  sit  snug  in  his  cart  behind  the 
quietest  old  harse  in  Darset  as  it  is  to  leave  your  wife  and 
your  home  and — and  everything,  and  to  go  riskin'  your  life 
among  Boers  and  Blacks  in  them  wild  parts  out  abroad." 

"  E-es,"  agreed  her  neighbour,  making  common  cause 
with  her  against  the  enemy,  ae-es,  indeed,  Mrs.  Bunce. 
And  your  little  boy  wasn't  so  much  as  born  when  his 
dada  was  took  away,  was  he  ?  Many  a  time,  I  dare  say, 
you  did  think  to  yourself  as  he'd  never  see  the  face  of  his 
child.  I  d'  'low  he  thought  the  same  hisself  goin'  off,  poor 
fellow  !  Ye'll  agree  that  was  a  bit  hard  on  the  man,  Mr. 
Bright,  so  little  credit  as  ye  be  willin'  to  allow  our  soldiers. 
Ye'll  agree  'twas  hard  on  the  man  to  go  off,  leavin'  his 
missus  to  get  through  her  trouble  alone,  and  the  child  the 
first  child,  too,  mind  ye." 

"  If  it  had  been  the  tenth  you  wouldn't  pity  him  so 
much,"  said  the  carrier,  with  a  dry  chuckle.  "There's 
some  as  don't  think  so  much  o'  them  things.  Jim  Mar- 
shall, now — says  I  to  Jim  t'other  day,  'Jim,'  I  says,  '  I 
hear  you've  got  an  increase  to  your  family  ' ;  and  poor 
Jim,  he  looks  at  me  and  says,  '  E-es,'  he  says, '  more  hard- 
ship'." 


248  DORSET  DEAR 

Chuckling  sardonically,  he  gathered  up  his  reins  and 
jogged  on  again,  the  women  looking  after  him  with  indig- 
nant faces. 

As  the  green  "  shed  "  of  his  van  disappeared  round  the 
corner,  their  eyes  by  mutual  accord  reverted  to  each  other, 
and  Mrs.  Andrews  laughed  disdainfully. 

"  Tis  a  queer  cranky  sort  of  body,"  she  remarked  ;  "  a 
bachelor  man.  What  can  you  expect  ? " 

Mrs.  Bunce's  face  was  still  pink  with  wrath,  but  she 
smiled  upon  the  other  woman. 

"  I  should  think  your  Jan  did  ought  to  come  home  soon 
now,"  she  said  handsomely ;  gratitude  for  Mrs.  Andrews' 
timely  sympathy  causing  her  to  be  for  the  moment  al- 
most willing  to  admit  there  might  be  another  soldier  of 
some  merit  in  the  British  Army  besides  Private  William 
Bunce. 

"  I'm  sure  I  hope  so,"  responded  her  neighbour  rather 
dismally.  "  You  are  safe  to  get  your  husband  back  next 
week,  anyhow." 

"  Next  week,"  echoed  Nellie  Bunce  joyfully.  "  Yes,  he 
says  in  his  last  letter  they  was  to  start  in  a  week,  and  I've 
a-counted  up  the  time,  and  he  did  ought  to  land  at  South- 
ampton Saturday  week." 

"  I  d'  'low  ye'll  be  busy  gettin'  all  ready  for  him,"  said  the 
older  woman,  falling  into  an  easy  attitude  with  her  hands 
on  her  hips,  the  better  to  contemplate  her  pretty  neighbour. 

"  I  d'  'low  I  be,"  responded  Nellie,  enthusiastically.  "  I 
be  goin'  to  give  en  the  best  welcome  I  can,  ye  mid  be  sure. 
I  be  cleanin'  up  the  house  fro'  top  to  bottom,  and  I  be 
goin'  to  paper  the  kitchen.  I've  bought  paper  already ;  I 


THE  HOME-COMING  OF  DADA  249 

reckon  I  could  easy  do  it  myself;  the  wall  aint  so  very 
high  and  the  room  hain't  too  big  neither." 

"  Tis  a  stiffish  job  for  a  woman  though,"  returned  Mrs. 
Andrews,  dubiously.  "  If  Andrews  wasn't  so  bad  with  the 
lumbagey,  I'd  get  en  to  lend  ye  a  hand ;  but  he's  that  stiff, 
poor  man,  he  can  scarcely  so  much  as  turn  hisself  in  bed." 

"Oh,  I'll  manage,"  returned  Mrs.  Bunce,  nodding 
brightly.  "I'm  a  great  one  for  contrivin',  and  't'ull  be 
summat  to  tell  Bill  as  I've  xa-done  it  myself." 

"  It'll  take  you  all  your  time,"  protested  Mrs.  Andrews, 
and  they  parted. 

During  the  ensuing  days  Nellie  was  indeed  up  to  her 
eyes  in  work,  canying  out  vigorously  her  plan  of  cleaning 
and  polishing  the  house  from  top  to  bottom.  Baby  Billy, 
who  had  hitherto  considered  himself  a  person  of  very  great 
importance,  found  himself  hustled  hither  and  thither  as  he 
had  never  been  in  the  whole  of  his  existence,  a  period 
extending  over  about  thirty  months. 

On  one  particular  afternoon,  when  every  washable  article 
in  the  house  was  in  Nellie's  tub,  he  was  bidden  to  play  out 
of  doors,  and  finding  the  maternal  eye  less  on  the  alert 
than  usual,  surreptitiously  opened  the  garden  gate  and 
wandered  to  the  forbidden  precincts  of  the  lane. 

He  trotted  along  for  nearly  a  quarter  of  a  mile,  until  he 
reached  a  particularly  delectable  corner  graced  by  a  large 
rubbish-heap,  which  he  proceeded  to  investigate  with  huge 
satisfaction,  carrying  one  treasure  after  another  over  the 
way,  sitting  down  to  examine  it,  and  immediately  rolling 
on  to  his  legs  again  to  procure  some  yet  more  coveted 
object. 


2so  DORSET  DEAR 

At  last,  however,  he  secured  two  prizes,  than  which 
nothing  more  desirable  could  be  imagined,  and  with  a  sigh 
of  satisfaction  toddled  for  the  last  time  across  the  lane 
and  sat  down  to  enjoy  them  at  his  leisure.  The  broken 
jam-pot  was  immediately  rilled  with  sand,  while  the  rusty 
knife,  grasped  by  its  fragmentary  handle,  could  be  used  in 
a  variety  of  ways — so  Billy  discovered — as  a  spade,  as  a 
saw,  as  a  chopper. 

He  was  engaged  in  mincing  a  dock  leaf  veiy  small  on  a 
flat  stone,  his  mouth  opening  and  shutting  in  accompani- 
ment to  his  labours,  when  he  was  suddenly  hailed  by 
somebody  who  had  abruptly  turned  the  corner  of  the  lane, 
somebody  who  was  probably  on  his  way  from  the  town. 

"  Hello  ! "  cried  this  somebody. 

"  Hello ! "  responded  Billy,  pausing  with  his  knife  poised 
in  mid  air  and  looking  up  with  a  pair  of  very  big  and  very 
blue  eyes.  He  had  to  tilt  his  head  quite  a  long  way  back 
to  do  so,  for  the  new  comer  was  tall.  Billy  was  a  little 
startled ;  to  begin  with  the  new  comer  was  a  man,  and  he 
was  not  sure  that  he  liked  men — they  cracked  whips  some- 
times, and  spoke  loud  and  gruff,  particularly  when,  as 
occasionally  happened,  Billy  chanced  to  run  across  the  road 
immediately  in  front  of  their  horses ;  then  he  had  funny 
brown  clothes — nobody  that  Billy  had  ever  seen  wore 
clothes  like  that ;  and  he  had  a  brown  face  too,  a  face  so 
very,  very  brown  that  it  gave  his  blue  eyes  a  strange  look. 
Billy  was  secretly  a  good  deal  frightened,  but  being  a 
soldier's  son  he  only  clutched  his  knife  the  harder  and  said, 
"  Hello !  "  again,  as  the  stranger  continued  to  look  at  him 
without  speaking. 


THE  HOME-COMING  OF  DADA  251 

"  I  rather  think  I  ought  to  know  you,  my  lad,"  said  the 
man  at  last,  in  a  queer  quavering  voice.  "  I'd  swear  by 
that  little  cocked  nose.  What's  your  name,  eh?" 

"  Billy,"  responded  the  child  promptly. 

"  Right  you  are ! "  cried  the  man,  and  he  caught  him  up 
in  his  arms,  knife  and  jam-pot  and  all.  "  Let's  hear  the 
rest  of  it,  though.  Billy  what  ? " 

"  I  want  to  get  down,"  asserted  the  urchin,  vigorously 
struggling.  "  I  want  to  get  down  and  make  a  pudden  for 
my  dada." 

The  man  grimaced,  and  instantly  set  the  child  upon  his 
legs. 

"  Perhaps  we've  made  a  mistake  after  all,"  he  said  ; 
"  perhaps  you  are  some  other  chap's  Billy.  Where  does 
your  dada  live,  young  'un  ? — tell  us  that." 

Billy  had  by  this  time  squatted  on  the  ground  again, 
and  was  once  more  chopping  at  his  dock  leaf.  He  did  not 
answer  until  the  man  had  twice  repeated  his  question,  then 
he  explained. 

"  My  dada's  tummin'  home.  He's  tummin'  in  a  ship — 
and  a  puff-puff,"  he  added,  as  an  after-thought. 

"  Right  you  are,"  cried  the  brown-faced  man  again,  and 
he  caught  him  up  in  his  arms  once  more  and  kissed  him. 
"  I  thought  I'd  know  my  little  woman's  nose  among  a 
thousand,  and  yours  is  so  like  it  as  one  pea  is  like  another. 
Come,  let's  go  and  look  for  mammy." 

Billy  was  at  first  disposed  to  protest,  but  something  at 
once  merry  and  tender  in  the  man's  blue  eyes  disarmed 
suspicion  ;  and  when  he  presently  found  himself  hoisted  on 
a  broad  shoulder,  and  was  thus  carried  at  galloping  speed 


252  DORSET  DEAR 

down  the  lane  and  through  the  village  ;  when,  moreover, 
this  self-constituted  steed  actually  vaulted  the  garden  gate, 
and  covered  the  tiny  path  that  intervened  between  it  and 
the  cottage  door  with  two  strides,  he  was  not  only  reassured 
but  jubilant. 

They  could  see  "  mammy "  bending  over  the  wash-tub 
through  the  open  kitchen  door,  very  red  in  the  face,  veiy 
wet  and  draggled  as  to  dress,  and  with  one  end  of  her  hair 
straggling  down  ;  and  the  queer  thing  was  that  at  sight  of 
her  the  man  suddenly  came  to  a  standstill  and  uttered  a 
kind  of  choking  cry.  And  then  mammy  turned  round  and 
dropped  the  shirt  she  had  been  wringing  out,  and  fairly 
screamed  as  she  came  rushing  across  the  kitchen.  Then 
laughing  and  crying  together  she  flung  her  arms  round  the 
brown  man's  neck,  heedless  of  the  danger  to  which  she 
was  exposing  herself  from  the  broken  jam-pot  and  the 
rusty  knife  which  Billy  was  still  brandishing ;  and  kissed 
him,  and  rocked  backwards  and  forwards  with  him,  and 
seemed  altogether  to  have  taken  leave  of  her  senses. 

After  a  moment's  breathless  pause  of  astonishment, 
Billy  thought  it  time  to  assert  himself.  He  dropped  his 
two  treasures  on  the  floor  and  burst  into  a  loud  wail. 
Then  clutching  hold  of  the  new  comer's  close-cropped  fair 
head,  he  endeavoured  with  all  his  might  to  pull  it  away 
from  the  curly  one  that  was  pressed  so  close  to  it.  And 
then  mammy  looked  up,  and  her  eyes  were  all  wet,  but 
her  mouth  was  laughing. 

"  You  mustn't  do  that,  sonny,"  she  said.  "  This  is  dada  ! 
Dada's  come  home." 

Billy  was  dumb  with  dismay  and  disappointment,  partly 


THE  HOME-COMING  OF  DADA  253 

at  the  discovery  that  the  much-talked-of  and  hitherto 
unimagined  dada  was  a  man,  partly  because  he  was  such 
a  very  brown  man,  but  chiefly  because  he  had  arrived 
shorn  of  the  glories  of  the  ship  and  the  puff-puff  which  he 
had  understood  were  to  accompany  him.  So  he  sat  still 
and  rather  sulky  on  the  khaki  shoulder  while  Private  Bunce 
explained  how  he  had  caught  sight  of  the  little  chap,  and 
how  he  at  once  "  spotted  "  him  by  that  little  nose  of  his, 
and  how  disappointed  he  had  been  when  for  a  moment  he 
had  thought  it  was  not  his  Billy  after  all,  but  some  other 
quite  uninteresting  Billy  belonging  to  another  fellow. 

"  But  I  found  him  all  right,"  he  summed  up  trium- 
phantly, "  and  I  found  you,  little  woman — lookin'  tip-top 
you  are,  just  about !  Lard,  it  do  seem  a  mortal  time  since 
I  left  you,  my  girl." 

"  Oh,  Bill,  I  meant  to  have  everything  so  nice  for  'ee," 
cried  Nellie.  "  Dear,  to  think  there's  nothin'  ready  !  I'm 
sure  I'm  not  fit  to  be  seen  myself." 

She  glanced  regretfully  towards  the  wash-tub.  Her 
pink  blouse  was  in  there — the  blouse  Bill  had  always  said 
he  liked — and  her  lace  collar  and  the  little  ruffles  for  her 
wrists.  The  old  blue  cotton  gown  which  she  wore  was 
not  only  faded  and  patched,  but  soiled  and  almost  wet 
through. 

"  You're  lookin'  just  splendid  though,"  cried  her  husband. 
"  Why,  that  there's  the  very  gown  you  used  to  wear  when 
we  went  a-coortin" — I  mind  it  well — that  little  wavy  stripe. 
I  used  to  think  it  the  prettiest  thing  I  ever  did  see.  And 
here's  the  little  curl  comin'  down  what  I  used  to  kiss  when 
we  was  a-walkin'  down  by  the  river." 


Z54  DORSET  DEAR 

"  Oh,  Bill,  is  it  comin'  down  ?  I  wanted  to  be  so  tidy 
and  nice.  I  reckoned  ye  was  comin'  next  week,  ye  know." 

"  I  come  over  wi'  the  colonel.  He  come  across  a  bit 
sooner  nor  we  expected,  bein'  knocked  up  wi'  one  thing 
and  another.  '  The  sooner  the  better,'  thinks  I." 

"  Of  course,"  cried  Nellie  fervently ;  "  the  sooner  the 
better  indeed.  But  we  be  all  in  a  caddie  here.  There,  the 
window  curtains  and  the  best  table-cloth  and  the  very  bed- 
quilt  is  in  the  tub,  and  I  haven't  got  any  meat  in  the 
house!  I  thought  Billy  and  me  ud  go  a  bit  short  this 
week,  so's  to  have  a  reg'lar  feast  when  you  did  come 
home.  And — and " 

"  Now,  don't  you  fret,  old  girl  ;  we  hadn't  no  table- 
cloth nor  yet  bed-quilts  out  on  the  veldt.  And  as  for 
meat — blowed  if  I  do  care  so  very  much  for  meat.  But  I 
tell  ye  what  I  would  like." 

"  What  ? "  cried  Nellie  breathlessly. 

"What  I  would  like  more  nor  any  earthly  thing,"  said 
Bill  emphatically,  but  with  a  twinkle  in  his  eye,  "  is  just 
'taters — 'taters  done  wi'  a  bit  o'  drippin',  hot  and  tasty,  the 
way  you  did  often  do  'em." 

Nellie  drew  a  long  breath  of  relief. 

"  Them's  easy  got,"  she  said  jubilantly,  but  almost  im- 
mediately her  face  fell  again.  "It  do  seem  a  poor  kind 
o'  welcome,"  she  murmured,  "  and  I " 

Private  Bunce  deposited  his  son  and  heir  upon  the 
floor,  the  better  to  bestow  a  really  satisfactory  embrace 
upon  the  little  sunburnt  woman.  She  was  exceedingly 
damp  and  smelt  very  strongly  of  soap,  but  he  did  not 
seem  to  mind. 


THE  HOME-COMING  OF  DADA  255 

"  Now,  look  here,"  he  said,  "  you  couldn't  give  I  a  better 
welcome  nor  what  you've  a-done.  This  here's  home — 
home  as  I  did  so  often  think  of  and  long  for ;  and  here 
you  be,  my  wold  'ooman,  lookin'  just  same  as  ever — just 
same  as  I  so  often  seed  ye  in  my  mind,  and  I  used  to 
dream  about  ye  many  a  time,  and  wake  up  and  find  mysel' 
lyin'  on  the  sand.  This  here's  home  and  this  here's  my 
little  'ooman — and  I  don't  want  nothin'  else,  wi'out  it's  this 
young  shaver,"  he  added  as  an  after-thought. 

And  so,  while  the  wash-tub  steamed  away  unheeded  in 
the  back  premises,  a  very  merry  party  sat  down  to  an 
impromptu  meal.  The  'taters  were  duly  set  forth,  and 
Nellie,  cleaned  up  and  tidy,  poured  out  tea,  and  Private 
Bunce  cut  huge  slices  from  the  crusty  loaf,  and  declared  he 
hadn't  had  such  a  blow-out,  no,  not  since  he  sailed  from 
Southampton. 

"  To  my  mind,  Nellie,"  he  cried  presently,  "  the  room 
do  seem  to  look  more  cheerful  like  wi'out  the  winder  cur- 
tains. A  body  notices  the  paper  more — the  dear  old 
paper  what  I  did  stick  up  for  'ee  myself." 

Nellie  opened  her  mouth  as  though  to  speak,  but  changed 
her  mind  and  closed  it  again. 

"  I  tell  you  what  it  is,"  cried  Private  Bunce  enthusiastic- 
ally, "  the  place  wouldn't  look  itself  wi'out  that  wall-paper. 
I  wouldn't  have  it  changed  for  anything." 

Then  Nellie  burst  out  laughing  and  clapped  her 
hands. 


THE  MAJESTY  OF  THE  LAW. 

THEY  were  cutting  Farmer  Fowler's  largest  hayfield  ;  it 
was  eleven  o'clock,  and  the  men  had  just  "knocked  off" 
for  the  light  meal  known  in  those  parts  as  "  nuncheon  ". 
A  big  flagon  of  cider  was  being  passed  round  from  one  to 
the  other,  accompanied  by  goodly  slices  of  bread  and 
cheese.  The  farmer  himself  stood  a  little  apart  under  the 
shade  of  a  large  elm  which  grew  midway  in  the  hedgerow 
that  divided  this  field  from  its  neighbour,  paying  a  half 
scornful  attention  to  the  scraps  of  talk  with  which  the 
labourers  seasoned  their  meal.  He  himself  was  not  given 
to  self-indulgence,  and  inwardly  chafed  at  the  loss  of  this 
half-hour  from  the  busiest  time  of  the  day.  He  had 
worked  as  hard  as  any  of  his  men,  and  was,  indeed, 
hardly  to  be  distinguished  from  them,  except  by  the 
better  quality  of  his  clothes.  He  was  a  tall,  strong-looking 
fellow,  with  a  face  as  sunburnt  as  any  of  theirs,  and  arms 
as  muscular  and  brown.  He  was  coatless,  and  wore  a 
great  chip  hat ;  his  shirt-sleeves  were  rolled  up  above  his 
elbows,  and  his  shirt  was  open  at  the  throat.  Two  teams 
of  horses  stood  in  the  shadow  of  the  hedge,  plucking  at 
the  twigs  or  stretching  down  their  necks  towards  the  grass 

which  they  could  not  reach  ;  the  vast  field,  half  cut,  lay 

256 


THE  MAJESTY  OF  THE  LAW  257 

shimmering  before  him  in  a  blaze  of  light ;  the  dome  over- 
head glowed  almost  to  whiteness,  for  the  sun  at  this  hour 
was  intolerably  hot.  Yet  even  as  the  master  gazed,  im- 
patiently longing  for  the  moment  when  he  could  set  his 
hinds  to  work  again,  he  saw  a  figure  rapidly  crossing  the 
field,  looking  from  right  to  left,  as  though  in  search  of 
some  one.  It  was  the  figure  of  a  young  woman  ;  so  much 
he  could  divine  from  the  shapely  outline  and  springing 
ease  of  motion,  but  her  face  was  at  first  lost  to  him  under 
the  deep  shade  of  her  broad-brimmed  hat.  She  approached 
the  group  of  labourers  first,  and  made  some  query  in  a  tone 
too  low  for  him  to  distinguish  the  words.  He  saw  his 
foreman,  however,  turn  towards  the  tree  beneath  which  he 
himself  stood  and  jerk  his  thumb  over  his  shoulder.  Evi- 
dently the  young  woman  had  come  in  search  of  him. 

She  made  her  way  towards  him,  walking  more  slowly, 
and  indicating  by  her  aspect  a  certain  amount  of  diffi- 
dence. A  comely  girl — he  could  see  that  now — dark-eyed, 
dark-haired,  and  plowing  with  health  and  life. 

"  If  you  please,  sir,"  she  began  timidly,  "  I  came — my 
father  sent  me.  It's  about  the  taxes." 

She  drew  from  her  pocket  a  little  blue  paper  of  familiar 
aspect ;  the  demand-note  for  the  rates  collected  four  times 
a  year  by  the  Overseers  of  the  Branstone  Union.  The 
angry  colour  glowed  in  Jacob  Fowler's  face  as  he  twitched 
the  paper  from  her  hand. 

"  What's  the  meaning  of  this  ? "  he  cried  ;  "  what  have 
you  got  to  do  with  it  ? " 

"  I  am  Isaac  Masters'  daughter,  of  Little  Branstone,"  she 
said  hastily.  "  He  collects  the  rates  for  our  parish,  but 


458  DORSET  DEAR 

he's  very  ill  in  bed.  He's  had  a  stroke,  poor  Father  has, 
and  I'm  doing  his  work  for  him." 

"He  should  have  known  better  than  to  send  you  to 
me,"  returned  Jacob,  still  wrathfully.  "  I  never  heard  sich 
a  tale  i'  my  life.  Sendin1  a  maid  to  collect  the  rates  ! 
Dally  !  Where  will  the  women-folk  stop  ?  ' 

"  Nobody  else  made  any  objection,"  said  the  girl,  with  a 
little  toss  of  her  head.  "  I've  got  it  all  right,  except  yours  ; 
and  Father  thought  I'd  best  come  and  ask  for  it." 

"  Then  you  can  tell  your  father  as  he  did  make  a  very 
great  mistake,"  thundered  Fowler.  "  'Tis  bad  enough  to 
be  bothered  about  they  dalled  rates  wi'out  havin'  a  woman 
set  up  over  you." 

He  tore  the  paper  into  fragments  as  he  spoke,  scatter- 
ing them  to  the  breeze.  "  There,  you  jist  turn  about  and 
go  home-along,  my  maid,  and  tell  your  father  that's  my 
answer.  If  your  father  bain't  fit  to  do  his  work  hissel',  he 
did  ought  to  get  somebody  else  to  do  it  for  'en — some 
other  man.  The  notion  o'  sendin'  a  maid  !  I  never  did 
hear  o'  sich  a  piece  o'  cheek  !  " 

The  girl,  without  waiting  for  the  end  of  his  indignant 
commentary,  had  turned  about  as  he  had  advised,  and 
was  now  walking  swiftly  away,  her  head  held  very  high, 
angry  tears  on  her  thick  lashes.  Jacob  impatiently  jerked 
out  his  watch  ;  it  wanted  still  ten  minutes  of  the  time 
when  work  would  have  to  be  resumed.  He  dropped  the 
watch  into  his  pocket  again,  whistling  under  his  breath,  a 
good  deal  out  of  tune.  Once  more  fragments  of  the  men's 
talk  reached  his  unwilling  ears. 

"That  be  Bethia  Masters,  that  be — a  wonderful  good 


THE  MAJESTY  OF  THE  LAW  259 

maid.  They  d'  say  the  wold  man  'ud  be  fair  lost  wi'out 
her.  The  Parish  Council  did  give  her  leave  to  take  his 
place  for  a  bit  so  long  as  there  was  a  chance  he  mid  get 
better."  "She  be  a  shapely  maid  and  a  vitty  one." 
"  E-es,  she's  well  enough  ;  looks  a  bit  tired  now,  walkin'  i' 
the  heat  three  mile  here  and  three  mile  back."  "  E-es, 
and  a  sarcin'  at  the  end  o't,"  chuckled  one  old  fellow  under 
his  breath.  "  Our  maister,  he  did  gi'  't  to  her  !  I  heerd 
'en.  Our  maister  bain't  partial  to  payin'  rates  at  any  time, 
and  he  didn't  reckon  for  to  hand  over  his  money  to  a 
'ooman." 

Farmer  Fowler  watched  the  retreating  figure  idly  ;  it  was 
true  she  was  a  shapely  maid.  How  lightly  and  rapidly 
she  walked  :  'twas  a  long  way,  too — three  miles  and  more. 
He  could  have  wished  he  had  not  been  quite  so  hard  with 
her.  He  might  have  asked  her  to  sit  down  and  rest  for  a 
while ;  he  might  have  offered  her  a  glass  of  cider.  He 
almost  wondered  at  his  own  outburst  of  irritation  as  he 
looked  back  on  it  now,  and  watched  the  girl's  retreating 
form  with  an  increasing  sense  of  shame. 

The  toilsome  day  was  over  at  last,  the  horses  stabled, 
the  men  fed.  Farmer  Fowler  was  smoking  the  pipe  of 
peace  in  his  trellised  porch  with  a  pleasant  sense  of  weari- 
ness. It  was  good  to  rest  there  under  the  honeysuckle  in 
the  twilight,  and  to  think  of  how  much  had  been  accom- 
plished during  the  long  sunny  hours  which  had  preceded 
it. 

The  sound  of  a  light  foot  caused  him  to  raise  his  eyes, 
which  he  had  partially  closed  a  few  moments  before,  and 

the  ensuing  click  of  the  garden  gate  made  him  sit  upright 

17* 


z6o  DORSET  DEAR 

and  crane  forward  his  head.  A  girl's  figure  was  making 
its  way  down  the  little  paved  path,  a  girl's  voice  once  more 
greeted  him  tremulously. 

"  If  you  please,  Mr.  Fowler,  I'm  sorry  to  trouble  you, 
but " 

Jacob  Fowler  in  the  evening  was  a  different  person  to 
the  Jacob  Fowler  of  the  fields ;  he  stretched  out  his  hand 
and  drew  her  forward  by  the  sleeve. 

"  Sit  down,  my  maid,"  he  said ;  "  sit  ye  down.  You've 
a-had  a  longish  walk,  and  for  the  second  time  to-day,  too." 

Bethia  came  into  the  shadow  of  the  porch ;  her  face 
looked  pale  in  the  dim  light,  and  he  could  see  the  bosom 
of  her  light  dress  rise  and  fall  quickly  with  her  rapid 
breath. 

"  If  you  please,  sir,"  she  began  again,  "  I  know  you'll 
be  vexed,  but  Father,  he's  very  much  undone  about  the 
taxes.  He'll  be  gettin'  into  trouble,  he  says,  if  he  doesn't 
send  the  money  off  to-morrow.  He  made  me  come  back 
and  ask  you  again.  We'd  take  it  very  kind  if  you'd  let  us 
have  what's  owing,  sir." 

Her  tremulous  tone  smote  Jacob ;  stretching  out  his  big 
hand  once  more,  he  patted  her  shoulder  encouragingly. 

"  There,  don't  ye  be  afeard,  my  maid ;  don't  ye.  I'll 
not  bite  ye." 

A  dimple  peeped  out  near  Bethia's  lip.  "  You  very 
nearly  did  bite  me  this  morning,"  she  said. 

"  Nay,  now,"  returned  Jacob,  smiling  beneath  his  thick 
beard,  "  I  weren't  a-goin'  to  bite  ye ;  I  was  on'y  barkin', 
maid.  Lard,  if  you  did  know  I,  you'd  say  wi'  the  rest  of 
•m  that  my  bark  was  worse  nor  my  bite.  There !  what 


THE  MAJESTY  OF  THE  LAW  261 

about  this  trifle  o'  money  as  I  owe  for  the  rates  ?  How 
much  is  it  ?  Dally !  I  don't  know  how  'tis,  but  it  fair 
goes  agen  me  to  pay  out  money  for  taxes.  It  do  seem  so 
unfair  when  a  man's  farm's  his  own — land  and  house  and 
all — for  Government  to  go  and  say, '  You've  a-got  a  house, 
and  you've  a-got  land  as  your  father  and  grandfather  have 
a -bought  wi'  their  own  money — you  must  pay  out  for 
that,  my  lad ;  you  must  hand  over  whatever  we  pleases  to 
ax  for.'  'Tisn't  as  if  they'd  consult  a  man.  If  they  was 
to  say  to  I,  '  Mr.  Fowler,  you  be  a  warmish  man,  and 
there's  a  good  few  poor  folk  up  i'  the  union  ;  what  be  you 
willin'  to  allow  us  for  them  ? '  I'd  call  that  fair  enough, 
and  I'd  tell  'em  straight  out  what  I  was  willin'  to  'low. 
But  no  ;  they  goes  and  settles  it  all  among  theirselves  wi' 
never  a  word  to  nobody,  and  jist  sends  out  a  paper  wi'out 
by  your  leave  or  wi'  your  leave.  '  You  be  to  pay  so  much, 
whether  you  do  like  it  or  whether  you  don't.'  Tain't  fair." 

"  I  dare  say  it  isn't,  sir,"  rejoined  Bethia,  very  meekly  ; 
"  but  I'm  not  askin'  you  on  account  of  the  Government — 
I'm  just  askin'  you  for  Father's  sake.  He's  fretting  terribly, 
and  the  doctor  says  he  oughtn't  to  upset  himself." 

"  Well,  I  don't  mind  if  I  do  make  an  end  o'  this  here 
business  for  your  father's  sake,  maidy  ;  but  I  d'  'low  I'd 
jist  so  soon  do  it  for  yours." 

"  For  mine  ! " 

"  E-es,  because  you  do  ask  I  so  pretty.  I  did  speak  a 
bit  sharp  to  ye  this  mornin',  but  it  was  along  o'  being 
vexed  wi'  the  Government — I  wasn't  really  vexed  wi'  you, 
my  dear." 

Bethia  began  to  laugh  ;  her  little  white  teeth  flashed 


262  DORSET  DEAR 

out  in  the  most  charming  way — her  bright  eyes  lit  up. 
Jacob  gazed  at  her  with  increasing  favour. 

"  I  bain't  vexed  wi'  you,  my  dear,"  he  repeated  affably, 
and  then  suddenly  standing  up,  darted  into  the  house.  In 
a  few  minutes  he  emerged  again  carrying  a  little  packet, 
which  he  handed  to  her. 

"  It  be  all  there,  wrapped  up  i'  that  bit  o'  paper ;  you'd 
best  count  it  and  see  as  it  be  right.  Will  ye  take  a  glass 
o'  milk  or  summat?  " 

"No,  thank  you,  Mr.  Fowler;  I'm  very  much  obliged, 
but  I  think  I  must  be  getting  home  now.  It's  growin' 
dark,  and  my  father  will  be  anxious." 

"  Wouldn't  you  like  nothin'  ? "  insisted  Jacob.  "  A  posy 
o'  flowers  or  summat  ?  There's  a-many  of  'em  growin'  i' 
the  garden,  and  nobody  ever  thinks  for  to  pick  "em." 

"  Of  course  not ;  a  man  does  not  care  for  such  things,  I 
know.  You  live  all  alone,  don't  you,  Mr.  Fowler?  " 

"  All  alone,  my  maid,  since  my  poor  mother  died.  She 
went  to  the  New  House  fifteen  year  ago.  I'm  what  you 
mid  call  a  reg'lar  wold  bachelor,  I  be." 

He  threw  out  this  last  remark  with  such  an  obvious 
wish  to  be  contradicted  that  Bethia  hastened  to  return, 
"  Not  so  old  as  that,  I'm  sure,  Mr.  Fowler.  My  father 
always  speaks  of  you  as  a  young  man." 

"  I  be  jist  upon  farty,"  returned  Jacob,  with  surprising 
promptitude.  "  Farty ;  that  be  my  age.  Not  so  old  for 
a  man." 

"Not  at  all  old,"  returned  Bethia  very  politely  ;  then, 
extending  her  hand,  "I'll  say  good-night  now,  sir." 

''  Won't  you  have  a  posy,  then  ?     Do.     Help  yourself, 


THE  MAJESTY  OF  THE  LAW  263 

my  maid.     I'll  walk  a  piece  o'  the  way  home  wi'  you,  and 
then  you  needn't  be  afeard." 

"  Very  well,  and  thank  you  kindly." 

She  followed  him  out  of  the  porch,  and  up  a  path  that 
led  round  the  house  to  the  old-fashioned  garden  at  the 
rear,  where  there  were  roses,  and  lilies,  and  pinks,  and 
sweet-williams  growing  in  a  glorious  medley.  She  uttered 
little  shrieks  of  delight,  as  she  ran  hither  and  thither, 
breaking  off  here  a  clusteVN  of  roses,  there  a  lily-head. 
Jacob  stalked  silently  behind  her,  clasp-knife  in  hand, 
cutting  ten  stalks  where  she  had  culled  one,  until  at  last 
a  very  sheaf  of  flowers  rested  in  his  arms. 

"  I'll  have  to  go  all  the  way  to  carry  it  for  you,"  he 
remarked  in  a  satisfied  tone. 

Bethia  turned  and  clapped  her  hands  together.  "  Oh, 
what  a  lot !  I  never  thought  you  were  going  to  get  all 
those  for  me.  How  shall  I  ever  thank  you  ? " 

"  I'll  carry  it  for  you,"  repeated  Jacob.  "  This  way  out, 
my  dear ;  there's  a  little  gate  jist  here." 

A  faint  after-glow  still  lingered  on  the  horizon,  but  al- 
ready the  silver  sickle  of  the  young  moon  appeared  in  the 
transparent  sky.  A  bat  circled  round  their  heads  from 
time  to  time,  yet  some  love-lorn  thrush  serenaded  his  mate 
somewhere  not  far  off,  his  liquid  ecstatic  notes  filling  the 
air,  as  it  seemed.  Great  waves  of  perfume  were  wafted  to 
Bethia's  nostrils  as  she  paced  along  beside  the  farmer, 
whose  tall  figure  towered  over  her,  the  silhouette  of  his 
face  showing  clear  above  the  irregular  line  of  hedge. 

As  they  walked  he  questioned  her  from  time  to  time,  and 
learned  how  the  girl  had  only  come  back  to  live  with  her 


264  DORSET  DEAR 

parents  within  the  past  year,  having  been  absent  for  some 
time  teaching  in  a  school  at  Dorchester. 

"  School-teachin' ! "  commented  Jacob.  "  That  be  how 
you  do  speak  so  nice  and  clear.  I  speak  awful  broad 
myself — never  had  much  eddication." 

"  Hadn't  you  ? "  returned  Bethia,  with  interest. 

"  Nay,  never  had  no  time  for  that.  My  father,  he  died 
when  I  were  a  lad,  and  my  mother  weren't  one  as  could 
manage  a  farm  so  very  well.  She  was  a  bit  soft,  my  poor 
mother,  and  very  easy  taken  in.  So  I  did  put  shoulder  to 
the  wheel,  and  I  mid  say  I've  been  a-shovin'  of  it  ever 
since." 

"  I  wonder  you  didn't  get  married,  Mr.  Fowler,"  said 
Bethia,  with  perhaps  a  suspicion  of  archness  in  her  voice. 

Jacob  only  grunted  in  reply,  and  an  embarrassed  silence 
fell  between  them,  and  remained  unbroken  till  they  had 
reached  Little  Branstone  village. 

Jacob  accompanied  the  girl  down  the  by-lane  which  led 
to  her  home,  and  followed  her  into  the  kitchen ;  there, 
however,  he  refused  to  stay,  in  spite  of  Mrs.  Masters'  civil 
request  that  he  would  sit  down  and  rest. 

"  Nay,"  he  returned  gruffly,  "  I'll  be  gettin'  home-along 
now ;  I  only  come  so  far  to  carry  this  here  posy." 

Depositing  his  fragrant  sheaf  upon  the  table,  he  nodded 
right  and  left  at  mother  and  daughter,  and  withdrew. 

"  Dear !  Well,  to  be  sure !  Dear  heart  alive,  Bethia, 
ye  could  ha'  knocked  I  down  wi'  a  feather  when  he  come 
marchin'  in.  Lard  ha'  mercy,  maidy,  you  be  clever  to  ha' 
got  Jacob  Fowler  for  a  beau.  That  there  man  do  fair 
hate  women  of  all  sarts.  There,  he  do  never  so  much  as 


THE  MAJESTY  OF  THE  LAW  265 

look  at  one — and  to  think  of  him  a-walkin'  all  that  long 
ways  jist  for  to  carry  them  flowers  !  He  did  give  you  the 
flowers,  too,  I  suppose  ? " 

"  Yes,"  returned  her  daughter ;  "  but  you  mustn't  call 
him  my  beau,  please,  Mother.  He  only  meant  to  be  polite." 

"  Well,  I'm  sure  he  did  never  try  to  be  polite  to  any  maid 
afore,"  returned  Mrs.  Masters  with  conviction.  "  They  do 
say  he  were  crossed  i'  love  when  he  were  a  young  'un. 
Did  he  give  'ee  the  money,  child  ? " 

"  Yes,  Mother,  and  was  very  nice  and  kind  altogether. 
I  think  he  was  sorry  for  Father  when  I  told  him  how  ill 
he'd  been." 

"  Oh,  to  be  sure,  that's  it,"  agreed  her  mother  jocosely. 
"  All  they  flowers  be  for  Father,  too,  I  d'  'low.  Come,  let's 
fetch  'em  up  to  'en." 

Poor  old  Masters,  ill  though  he  was,  chuckled  feebly  on 
hearing  the  marvellous  tale,  and  expressed  in  quavering 
tones  his  belief  that  his  daughter  was  a-doin'  pretty  well 
for  herself. 

The  girl,  who  had  lived  till  now  absolutely  heart-whole, 
could  not  repress  a  certain  flutter  of  excitement,  and  passed 
the  next  few  days  in  a  state  of  expectancy ;  but  Jacob 
Fowler  gave  no  further  sign  of  life.  Though  he  appeared 
at  church  on  Sunday,  he  kept  his  face  religiously  turned 
away  from  the  pretty  tax-gatherer's,  and  at  the  conclusion 
of  the  service  rushed  from  the  door  without  pausing  to 
look  round. 

Bethia  bit  her  lip,  and  instead  of  dallying  a  little,  as 
was  her  custom,  to  chat  with  one  or  other  of  her  acquaint- 
ance, hastened  home. 


266  DORSET  DEAR 

"  Were  Farmer  Fowler  there,  my  dear  ? "  inquired  her 
mother. 

"  Yes,  but  he  didn't  speak  to  me — he  didn't  take  a  bit 
of  notice  of  me.  Put  that  notion  out  of  your  head,  Mother 
— there's  nothing  at  all  between  him  and  me." 

Soon  the  attention  of  the  little  household  was  entirely 
absorbed  by  a  more  acute  and  immediate  cause  of  trouble : 
poor  old  Masters,  after  a  brave  struggle,  and  in  spite  of 
the  adjurations  of  his  neighbours,  found  himself  unable  to 
"  hold  on  "  ;  he  loosed  his  feeble  grasp  of  life  suddenly  at 
last,  and  went  out,  as  his  wife  sorrowfully  remarked,  "  like 
the  snoff  of  a  candle  ". 

After  the  funeral  was  over,  the  question  of  ways  and 
means  stared  the  mother  and  daughter  in  the  face.  Mrs. 
Masters  did  a  little  business — a  very  little  business — with 
a  small  general  shop ;  it  was  quite  insufficient  to  support 
them.  Her  health  was  not  good,  and  Bethia  was  deter- 
mined not  to  leave  her  ;  there  was  no  opening  for  her  as  a 
teacher  in  that  village,  and  such  sums  as  she  might  earn 
by  taking  in  sewing  would  add  very  little  to  their  modest 
income.  She  resolved  to  make  a  bold  appeal  to  the  Parish 
Council  for  permission  to  continue  to  fill  her  father's  place 

"  I  could  do  it  every  bit  as  well  as  a  man,"  she  averred. 
"  I  have  done  it  during  the  last  few  months.  The  accounts 
are  all  in  order — I  have  found  no  difficulty  anywhere.  Do 
let  me  try,  gentlemen." 

The  gentlemen  in  question  were  at  first  taken  aback, 
then  amused,  finally  moved.  After  all,  they  said  to  each 
other,  there  was  no  reason  why  the  girl  should  not  try. 
As  long  as  the  duties  were  discharged  exactly  and  punc- 


THE  MAJESTY  OF  THE  LAW  267 

tually,  there  was  no  reason  why  they  should  not  be  under- 
taken by  a  woman  as  well  as  by  a  man. 

"  But  there  must  be  no  favouritism,  Miss  Masters,"  said 
one,  with  a  twinkle  in  his  eye ;  "  no  letting  off  of  any 
particular  friend.  You  must  be  firm,  even  with  your  nearest 
and  dearest.  If  people  don't  pay  up  after  two  or  three 
applications,  you  must  harden  your  heart  and  take  out  a 
summons." 

"  I  will,"  said  Bethia  seriously. 

In  a  few  days  the  news  of  her  installation  as  assistant 
overseer  spread  through  the  place,  one  of  the  first  to  hear 
of  it  being  Jacob  Fowler. 

Bethia  was  standing  in  the  kitchen  shelling  peas  one 
morning  when  his  knock  came  at  the  door,  almost  imme- 
diately followed  by  the  appearance  of  his  large  person  from 
behind  it. 

"  Be  this  here  true  what  I've  a-heard  ? "  he  inquired 
abruptly.  "  Be  it  true  as  you  be  a-goin'  to  carry  on  this 
rate-collecting  same  as  your  father  did  do  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Mr.  Fowler,"  answered  Bethia,  not  without  a 
certain  pride.  "  The  Parish  Council  gentlemen  think  I 
can  do  it  just  as  well  as  anybody ;  and  I'm  glad  to  say 
they've  agreed  to  let  me  try." 

"  /  don't  agree,  then,"  cried  Jacob  violently.  "  It  bain't 
at  all  fit  nor  becomin'  for  a  young  'ooman  same  as  you  to 
be  a-goin'  about  from  house  to  house,  visitin'  folks  and 
axin'  them  for  their  money.  It  bain't  proper,  I  tell  'ee." 

"  What  nonsense ! "  exclaimed  Bethia,  with  a  toss  of 
her  pretty  curly  locks.  "  What's  it  to  you,  Mr.  Fowler, 
anyhow  ? " 


268  DORSET  DEAR 

"  I  don't  like  it,"  growled  Fowler.  "  Will  you  go  and 
ax  folks  for  it,  same  as  you  did  ax  I  ?  " 

"  I  shall  leave  a  little  note  first,"  said  Bethia,  with  a  veiy 
business-like  air,  "  a  demand-note,  you  know.  If  they 
don't  pay  up  I  shall  call  personally." 

"  It  bain't  the  right  thing  for  a  faymale,"  repeated  Fowler 
sourly ;  "  least  of  all  for  a  young  faymale.  Folks  'ull  be 
givin'  ye  impidence." 

"  Oh,  no,  they  won't,"  returned  Bethia  with  dignity. 
"  I'm  not  one  that  anybody  could  take  liberties  with,  Mr. 
Fowler." 

He  stood  leaning  against  the  table  frowning. 

"  Will  ye  ax  "em  rough-like,  or  will  ye  ax  'em  civil  ? "  he 
inquired,  after  ruminating  for  a  while. 

"  Why,  of  course  I  shall  be  civil,  Mr.  Fowler." 

"  Will  ye  ax  'em  so  civil  as  ye  did  ax  I  ? "  he  insisted 
with  a  kind  of  roar. 

"  I'm  sure  I  don't  know,"  stammered  the  girl,  taken 
aback  for  a  moment.  ''  Yes,"  recovering  herself,  "  certainly 
I  shall.  There's  no  reason  why  I  should  make  any  differ- 
ence between  you  and  anybody  else." 

"  You  tell  I  that  to  my  face  !  You'll  go  a-speakin"  'em 
soft  and  a-smilin'  at  'em  pretty,  jist  same  as  ye  did  do  to 
I  !  Bailed  if  I  do  allow  it !  Bailed  if  I  do,  I  say  ! " 

"  Really,  Mr.  Fowler,"  said  Bethia  with  spirit,  "  I  don't 
know  what  you  mean.  It's  very  rude  of  you  to  talk  to 
me  like  that,  and  I  do  not  see  why  you  should  interfere. 
I  shall  be  business-like  and  polite,  as  I  always  try  to  be 
with  everyone,  and  I  shall  be  firm  too.  The  Law  will 
support  me  just  the  same  as  if  I  were  a  man." 


THE  MAJESTY  OF  THE  LAW  269 

"  Dalled  if  I  do  allow  it,"  repeated  Jacob,  still  in  a  kind 
of  muffled  bellow.  "  A  British  ratepayer  I  be,  and  have 
a-been  this  twenty  year  and  more,  and  I  say  I  bain't 
a-goin'  to  allow  it.  I  know  my  rights  so  well  as  any  man, 
and  I  bain't  a-goin'  to  be  put  upon  by  a  'ooman.  I  bain't 
a-goin'  to  allow  any  young  faymale  to  be  took  out  of  her 
proper  place  and  set  up  where  she's  no  business  to  be.  I'll 
have  no  faymale  tax-collectors  a-gaddin'  about  this  here 
parish  if  I  can  prevent  it.  Ill  protest,  maid,  see  if  I  don't, 
and,  what's  more,  not  one  farden  o'  rates  will  I  pay  into 
any  faymale  hands." 

Bethia,  more  and  more  irritated  by  his  manner,  thought 
it  time  to  assert  herself  finally  ;  and  withdrawing  her 
hands  from  the  basin  of  peas,  and  looking  him  full  in  the 
face,  she  returned,  with  great  firmness,  "  Won't  you,  Mr. 
Fowler  ?  Then  I'll  make  you." 

"  Lard  ha'  mercy  me  !  Listen  to  the  maid  ! "  exclaimed 
Jacob,  bursting  into  a  fit  of  ironical  laughter.  "  '  I'll  make 
ye,'  says  she.  Look  at  her,"  pointing  at  the  girl's  slender 
form.  "  That  be  a  good  un !  I  tell  'ee,  Miss  Masters, 
you'll  find  it  a  bit  hard  to  make  I  do  anything  I've  not 
got  a  mind  to  do." 

Bethia  took  up  a  pod  again  and  split  it  viciously.  "I've 
got  the  Law  at  my  back,"  she  remarked. 

"  Ho !  ho !  ho ! "  chuckled  Jacob,  this  time  with  un- 
feigned merriment.  "  Listen  to  her !  The  Law  at  her 
back  indeed  !  Such  a  little  small  back  it  be !  Why, 
maidy,  I  could  jist  finish  ye  offwi'  one  finger  !" 

"  I'm  not  talking  of  brute  force,"  said  Bethia,  with  flash- 
ing eyes.  "The  Law  is  stronger  than  you,  Mr.  Fowler. 


270  DORSET  DEAR 

Now,  if  you'll  kindly  go  away  and  let  me  get  on  with  my 
work,  I'll  be  much  obliged." 

But  Jacob  did  not  take  the  hint.  He  sat  down  on  the 
table  instead,  and  watched  the  girl  as,  with  an  affectation 
of  ignoring  his  presence,  she  moved  about,  filling  her 
saucepan  at  the  tap,  peeling  the  potatoes,  setting  them  on 
to  boil.  She  did  everything  swiftly,  deftly,  and  gracefully, 
holding  her  head  very  erect  meanwhile,  and  being  a  little 
sharper  in  her  movements  than  usual  on  account  of  her 
inward  irritation.  By-and-by  Mrs.  Masters  came  creak- 
ing down  the  narrow  stairs,  and  started  back  at  the  sight 
of  the  farmer. 

"  Dear !  To  be  sure  !  I  didn't  know  you  had  visitors 
here,  Bethia,  my  dear.  Won't  you  sit  i'  the  armchair, 
Mr.  Fowler  ?  Do  'ee  now.  I'm  sure  'tis  very  kind  o'  ye 
to  come  a-visitin'  o'  we  in  our  trouble." 

Bethia  marched  past  her  mother,  removed  the  pot  from 
the  fire,  and  carried  it  over  to  the  table. 

"  Could  you  make  a  little  room,  if  you  please  ?  "  she  in- 
quired tartly. 

Jacob  chuckled  and  rubbed  his  hands  as  he  slowly 
removed  his  ponderous  frame ;  then  the  remembrance  of 
his  former  grievance  returned  to  him,  and  he  gazed  at  the 
widow  loweringly. 

"  You  don't  like  this  here  notion,  Mrs.  Masters,  I  hope  ? " 
he  inquired  severely. 

"  What  notion,  sir  ?  "  returned  the  poor  woman,  startled. 

"  Why,  this  here  notion  o'  your  daughter  a-gaddin'  about 
lookin'  arter  the  rates." 

"  Well,  you  see,  we  be  so  hard  pressed,  we  be,"  faltered 


THE  MAJESTY  OF  THE  LAW  271 

she.  "  My  daughter  do  try  to  do  her  best  to  earn  a  little, 
all  ways  she  can.  I'm  sorry  as  you've  a-got  objections. 
Mr.  Fowler." 

"  It  doesn't  in  the  least  matter  if  he's  got  objections  or 
not,"  put  in  Bethia  tartly.  "  It's  no  concern  of  Mr.  Fowler's. 
So  long  as  he  pays  up  regularly  he  need  not  trouble  him- 
self." 

Jacob  got  out  of  the  armchair  and  once  more  approached 
the  table. 

"  Look  'ee  here,"  he  said  threateningly ;  "  this  here's 
past  a  joke.  I  do  forbid  ye  for  to  do  it — do  ye  hear  ? " 

Bethia  looked  at  him  steadily.  "  I  hear,  and  I  can  only 
repeat  what  I  said  before.  Now,  Mr.  Fowler,  will  you 
please  go  away?  I'm  going  to  dish  up." 

"  Bethia,  my  dear ! "  protested  Mrs.  Masters  feebly. 
"There,  she've  a-got  sich  a  spirit,  Mr.  Fowler,  you  must 
excuse  her.  She  be  a  bit  vexed,  you  see,  wi'  you  findin' 
fault  wi'  her.  I'm  sure,  the  longer  you  stay,  Mr.  Fowler, 
the  better  we'm  pleased.  We've  nothin'  much  fit  to  offer 
ye,  but  if  ye'd  like  to  sit  down  and  take  a  bit  wi'  us  you're 
truly  welcome." 

Bethia  shot  an  indignant  glance  towards  her  parent,  and 
Jacob  stood  hesitating  for  a  moment ;  then  with  a  laugh 
he  drew  up  his  chair  to  the  table. 

"  I'll  not  refuse  a  good  offer,"  he  said. 

Bethia  fetched  a  plate,  knife  and  fork,  and  glass,  setting 
each  before  him  with  somewhat  unnecessary  clatter.  Then 
she  served  up  the  vegetables,  brought  out  a  roll  of  butter 
and  a  small  piece  of  cheese  from  the  buttery,  and  took 
her  place  in  silence. 


272  DORSET  DEAR 

"I'm  sorry,"  began  Mrs.  Masters  regretfully,  "we've  got 
nothing  better  to  offer  ye,  Mr.  Fowler.  My  daughter  and 
me  seldom  eats  meat  of  a  week  day." 

"  Don't  make  excuses,  Mother,"  interrupted  Bethia,  with 
asperity.  "  Mr.  Fowler  knows  very  well  that  we  are  poor." 

The  meal  proceeded  in  silence  for  the  most  part,  Mrs. 
Masters  making  an  occasional  remark,  to  which  Jacob 
responded  by  a  gruff  monosyllable.  Bethia  did  not  speak 
once,  but  had  never  looked  prettier  in  her  life ;  the  angry 
sparkle  still  lingered  in  her  eyes,  and  her  cheeks  were 
flushed.  Whenever  she  glanced  at  the  visitor  her  counten- 
ance took  on  an  additional  expression  of  haughtiness. 

At  the  end  of  the  repast  Jacob  stood  up.  "  I'd  like  a 
word  wi'  ye  private,  Miss  Masters." 

"  Oh,  I  beg  pardon,  I'm  sure,"  apologised  the  poor  old 
mother,  hastening  to  efface  herself. 

As  soon  as  her  heavy  footsteps  were  heard  in  the  room 
upstairs  the  farmer  turned  to  Bethia. 

"  I've  a-come  to  see  ye  friendly  like,"  he  remarked,  "  and 
I'll  come  again.  I  ax  ye,  as  a  friend,  my  maid — will  ye 
gie  this  notion  up? " 

Bethia  looked  if  possible  more  indignant  than  before. 

"  No,  Mr.  Fowler,"  she  returned  promptly,  "  I  tell  you — 
as  a  friend — I  won't." 

"  Then  you'll  ha'  trouble  wi'  I,  I  warn  'ee,"  responded 
he,  almost  with  a  groan. 

Jacob  Fowler  kept  his  word,  and  gave  the  poor  little  rate- 
collector  an  inconceivable  amount  of  trouble. 

He  took  no  notice  whatever  of  her  demand-notes  and 
official  reminders  ;  and  when  she  called  to  see  him  in  per- 


THE  MAJESTY  OF  THE  LAW  273 

son,  though  he  received  her  with  civility  and  even  undis- 
guised pleasure,  he  resolutely  refused  to  part  with  a 
farthing.  The  friendliness  with  which  he  hailed  her  advent, 
and  entered  into  conversation  on  indifferent  subjects,  gave 
place  to  a  rigid  silence  as  soon  as  she  touched  on  the  motive 
of  her  visit,  and  he  would  shake  his  head  fiercely  as  often  as 
she  reverted  to  the  point. 

One  day  she  found  him  in  what  she  took  to  be  a  softened 
mood.  It  was  in  the  spring,  ^and  the  consciousness  that  it 
was  grand  weather  for  potato-setting,  added  to  the  recol- 
lection of  a  long  and  successful  day's  work,  had  put  Jacob 
in  an  unusually  good  humour.  He  was  smoking  in  his 
porch  when  she  drew  near,  and  at  once  invited  her  to  sit 
down  and  rest. 

"  You  do  look  a  bit  tired,  my  maid,"  he  remarked  ; 
"tired  and  worried." 

"  I  am  tired  and  worried  too,"  said  Bethia,  looking  up  at 
him  appealingly.  "I'm  afraid  of  getting  into  trouble,  Mr. 
Fowler." 

"  Oh,"  said  Jacob,  "  how's  that  ?  " 

"  They  will  be  down  on  me  for  not  sending  in  the 
money  regularly,"  returned  the  girl  tremulously ;  "  I've  got 
it  all  in  except  yours." 

Jacob,  instead  of  immediately  becoming  wooden  of 
aspect,  as  was  his  wont,  gazed  at  her  searchingly.  "  You'd 
be  all  right  if  you  was  to  get  mine  ?  "  he  inquired. 

"  Yes — oh,  yes,  Mr.  Fowler.  Couldn't  you  pay  up  and 
have  done  with  it  ? " 

Jacob  shook  his  head,  but  this  time  apparently  more  in 

sorrow  than  in  anger. 

18 


274  DORSET  DEAR 

"  Can't  be  done,  my  maid.  I've  a-passed  my  word,  d'ye 
see,  and  I  be  forced  to  stick  to  it." 

"  I  think  you  are  very  unkind,"  said  Bethia  ;  "  you  are 
trying  to  force  me  to  give  up  one  of  the  few  ways  I  have 
of  making  a  living." 

"  E-es,"  said  Jacob,  "  'tis  true  ;  'tis  the  very  thing  I  be 
a-doin'.  You  said  if  I  didn't  pay  up  you'd  make  me — 
well,  how  be  you  a-goin'  for  to  make  me  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  suppose  I'll  have  to  send  you  a  summons,"  cried 
she,  with  gathering  anger.  "  Tis  my  duty  and  I  must  do 
it." 

Jacob's  face  changed.  The  colour  mounted  in  his  brown 
cheeks,  and  when  he  spoke  his  voice  was  unsteady  with 
surprise  and  wrath. 

"  You  don't  mean  that,"  he  said  quickly.  "  You'd  never 
do  it." 

"  I'll  have  to  do  it,"  said  Bethia,  "  if  you  force  me  to 
proceed  to  extremes.  Oh,  Mr.  Fowler,"  she  added,  almost 
passionately,  "  can't  you  be  sensible  ;  can't  you  make  an 
end  of  it  once  and  for  all  ?  If  I'd  been  a  man  instead  of  a 
girl  you  wouldn't  persecute  me  like  this.  You'd  think  it 
quite  natural  for  me  to  want  to  take  my  father's  place, 
wouldn't  you  ?  What  difference  does  it  make  ?  I  can 
keep  the  accounts,  and  make  the  applications,  just  as  well 
as  any  man.  Why  should  you  try  to  bully  me  ? " 

"  Now  look  'ee  here,  my  maid,"  said  Jacob,  "  if  you 
come  to  that,  'tis  you  what  be  a-tryin'  for  to  bully  I.  I've 
a-set  my  face  again  this  'ere  notion.  No  respectable  young 
'ooman  did  ought  to  go  a-trapesin'  fro'  one  house  to 
t'other,  a  puttin'  herself  for'ard  and  a-coaxin'  folks  out  o' 


THE  MAJESTY  OF  THE  LAW  275 

their  money,  whether  it  be  for  the  Government  or  whether 
it  hain't.  Tis  a  question  between  us  two  which  can  hold 
out  longest.  Now  if  you  was  to  give  in  to  I — 

"  Well,"  said  Bethia,  bending  forward  with  unconscious 
eagerness,  "  what  would  happen  if  I  were  to  give  in  to 
you  ? " 

Jacob  took  out  his  pipe  and  stared  at  her,  and  then  he 
got  up  and  paced  about  the  little  flagged  path. 

"What  would  happen  ? "  she  repeated  sharply.  "  What 
would  you  advise  me  to  do  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know,"  returned  Jacob  confusedly.  "  I 
haven't  had  time  for  to  think  o'  that." 

It  was  now  Bethia's  turn  to  spring  to  her  feet.  "  I  think 
you  are  hard,  and  obstinate,  and  cruel !  Yes,  cruel,  to  try 
and  put  upon  my  poor  mother  and  me  !  But  I'll  have  an 
end  of  this  shilly-shally  work  ;  you  shall  be  forced  to  pay, 
sir." 

She  hastened  down  the  path.  Jacob,  after  delaying  a 
moment  to  lay  his  pipe  carefully  in  a  corner  of  the  seat, 
strode  after  her  and  opened  the  garden-gate,  holding  it  for 
a  moment  so  that  she  could  not  pass  through. 

Bethia  glanced  at  him.  He  did  not  look  angry,  but 
resolute  ;  his  jaw  was  firmly  set  and  his  eyes  steady.  It 
struck  her  forcibly  that  he  had  a  good  face — honest,  open, 
manly — and  she  realised  with  a  little  pang  that  it  was 
probably  turned  towards  her  for  the  last  time  in  friend- 
ship. 

"  I'll  give  you  a  month,"  she  said  waveringly. 

"  Ye  mid  as  well  say  a  year,"  returned  Jacob.  "  Twill 
be  all  the  same." 

18* 


276  DORSET  DEAR 

Thereupon  he  opened  the  gate  and  she  went  away. 

The  allotted  time  of  grace  passed  very  slowly,  and 
though  Bethia  continued  to  post  a  little  demand-note 
every  week,  no  notice  was  taken  either  of  her  appeal  or  of 
herself. 

Late  on  the  last  day  of  the  month  she  was  making  her 
way  back  from  the  town  with  a  very  melancholy  face, 
when,  at  a  turn  in  the  road,  she  suddenly  encountered 
Jacob  ;  Jacob  in  holiday  attire,  carrying  a  large  nosegay 
of  monthly  roses  and  lilac. 

"  Hullo,  my  maid,"  he  cried  genially,  "  well  met !  I 
were  just  a-goin'  to  see  you." 

"  Were  you?"  returned  Bethia,  in  a  very  small  constrained 
voice. 

"  E-es,  I  was  a-bringin'  you  these  here  flowers.  I  seed 
'em  i'  th'  garden  just  now,  and  I  thought  you'd  like  'em." 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Fowler,  you  shouldn't  give  them  to  me ! " 
cried  the  girl  with  a  catch  in  her  voice.  "  I've — I've  just 
been  and  taken  out  a  summons  against  you." 

"  Oh,  and  have  you  ?  "  said  Jacob  staring  at  her.  "  Well, 
that's  summat." 

"  Yes,"  returned  Bethia  desperately.  "  I  waited  till  the 
end  of  the  month,  and  then  I  had  to  do  it ;  it  was  my 
duty.  Oh,  dear  ;  oh,  dear !  " 

"Well,  to  think  on  't,"  said  Jacob,  still  apparently  more 
surprised  than  angry.  "  Lard  ha'  mercy !  That  be  a 
pretty  thing  for  a  maid  to  do." 

"  So  you'd  best  take  back  your  flowers,"  broke  out 
Bethia.  "  I  know  everything's  at  an  end  between  us. 
I've  quite  made  up  my  mind  to  it." 


THE  MAJESTY  OF  THE  LAW  277 

"  Ah,"  said  Jacob,  eyeing  her  thoughtfully  ;  "  'tis  queer 
once  folks  makes  up  their  minds  how  a  notion  will  stick  i' 
their  heads.  Now  all  this  month  I've  been  a-thinkin'  and 
a-thinkin' — I  never  was  one  to  do  a  thing  in  a  hurry — but 
at  last  I  reckoned  I'd  got  it  settled.  '  I'll  do  it,'  I  says, 
'  I'll  ax  the  maid  to  marry  I — that'll  be  the  best  way  out 
of  it.  She'll  not  want  to  go  again'  I  then/  I  says.  And 
you  go  and  summons  me." 

Bethia  burst  out  crying.  "  Oh,  Jacob,"  she  cried,  "why 
couldn't  you  have  done  it  before  ?  If  you  had  asked  me 
kindly — if  you  had  told  me  to  give  up  for  your  sake,  I — 
I— I " 

She  broke  off,  sobbing  bitterly. 

"'Tis  true,"  said  Jacob  regretfully,  "  I  mid  ha'  axed  ye 
a  bit  softer — I  mid  ha'  spoke  a  bit  more  kind — but  you 
did  go  and  put  my  back  up  with  stickin'  to  the  notion  so 
obstinate.  Says  I  to  myself,  '  So  soon  as  ever  she  gives 
in  I'll  ax  her — but  she  must  give  in ' — and  you  wouldn't. 
So  then  I  thought — '  Dally !  I'll  ax  her  first  and  then 
we'll  see.'  And  then  you  go  and  put  the  law  on  me  afore 
I've  time  to  open  my  mouth." 

"  Oh,  Jacob  !  I  waited  a  whole  month,"  protested  Bethia, 
almost  inarticulately ;  "  and  you  never  said  anything,  and 
I  thought  you  didn't  care  about  me,  and  it  seemed  to  be 
my  duty." 

She  covered  her  face  with  her  hands.  Jacob  stared  at 
her  for  a  moment,  and  then  suddenly  slapped  his  thigh 
and  burst  into  a  roar  of  laughter. 

"  I  d'  'low  the  maid  done  it  out  o'  pique,"  he  cried 
ecstatically,  "  I  d'  'low  she  did  !  She  did  do  it  along  of 


278  DORSET  DEAR 

her  feelin's  bein'  hurt  with  me  a-holdin'  back  so  long. 
That's  a  different  story,  my  dear — a  different  story  al- 
together !  I  bain't  one  to  bear  malice  along  o'  that ; 
'twas  but  nat'ral  arter  all.  E-es,  I  d'  'low  I  be  a  terrible 
slow-coach  ;  but,  ye  see,  I'd  a-got  set  i'  my  bachelor  ways, 
and  it  did  take  I  a  long  time  for  to  make  up  my  mind  ;  and 
then,  as  I  do  tell  'ee,  I  wur  a-waitin'  and  expectin'  for  you 
to  give  in.  But  I've  spoke  now,  and  if  you'll  say  the  word, 
my  dear,  all  can  be  forgive  and  forgot." 

Bethia  presumably  did  speak  the  word,  for  she  resigned 
her  post  as  tax-collector  that  very  evening,  and  she  and 
her  Jacob  were  "  asked  in  church  "  on  the  following  Sunday. 

As  for  that  matter  of  the  summons,  it  was  settled  "  out 
of  court". 


THE  SPUR  OF  THE  MOMENT. 

DANIEL  CHAFFEY  stood  poised  on  a  step-ladder  nailing 
up  the  fine  Gloire  de  Dijon  rose  which  was  trailed  over 
the  wall  of  his  house.  He  had  already  performed  the 
same  operation  for  the  jessamine  which  grew  over  the 
porch  and  for  the  purple  clematis  on  the  right  of  it.  He 
had  tied  his  dahlias  so  tightly  and  firmly  to  a  variety  of 
newly  cut  stakes,  that  each  individual  scarlet  bloom  re- 
minded one  in  some  measure  of  a  choleric  old  gentleman 
suffering  from  a  tight  and  high  shirt-collar.  He  had 
scraped  the  little  path  till  the  cobble-stones  of  which  it 
was  composed  stood  revealed  each  almost  in  its  entirety. 
From  his  exalted  position  he  could  survey  the  whole  front- 
age of  his  own  roof — a  sight  in  which  an  artist  would  have 
revelled,  for  not  only  was  the  thatch  itself  mellowed  by  time 
and  weather  to  the  most  exquisite  variety  of  tones,  but  on 
its  mouldering  surface  had  sprung  up  a  multitude  of  blooms, 
vying  in  brightness  with  those  of  the  garden  beneath — not 
merely  your  common  everyday  mosses  and  lichens,  though 
patches  of  these  were  to  be  found  in  every  shade  of  emerald 
and  topaz  and  silver,  but  flowers,  real  flowers,  seemed  to 
thrive  there ;  saxifrages,  toad-flax,  snap-dragon,  and,  just 
where  the  bedroom  gable  jutted  out,  a  flaming  bunch  of 
poppies.  It  will  be  seen  from  this  that  Daniel  Chaffey's 

279 


28o  DORSET  DEAR 

house  was  an  old  one  ;  it  bore  a  date  over  the  door,  cut 
roughly  in  the  weather-beaten  stone — 1701.  It  had  mul- 
lioned  windows  with  diamond  panes,  and  an  oaken  door 
studded  with  nails.  It  had  indeed  once  been  the  village 
schoolhouse,  though  the  Chaffey  family  had  been  in  posses- 
sion of  it  now  for  many  generations,  and  had  farmed,  more 
or  less  successfully,  the  small  holding  attached  to  it. 

Daniel,  himself,  looked  prosperous  enough  as  he  stood 
hammering  and  whistling,  and  occasionally  pausing  with 
his  head  on  one  side,  and  his  mouth  screwed  up  but  emit- 
ting no  sound,  to  survey  his  handiwork.  He  was  a  bullet- 
headed  young  man  of  about  four  or  five-and-twenty,  with 
twinkling  blue  eyes,  and  a  face,  the  natural  ruddy  tone  of 
which  was  overlaid  by  such  a  fine  veneer  of  sunburn  that 
it  was  now  of  a  uniform  brick-colour.  His  expression  was 
jovial,  not  to  say  jocular ;  his  mouth  wore  an  habitual  grin 
when  it  was  not  whistling,  and  on  this  particular  occasion 
some  inward  source  of  jollity  appeared  to  entertain  him, 
for  he  not  only  frequently  chuckled  but  winked  to  himself. 

Having  inserted  the  last  tack  into  the  crumbling  wall, 
he  paused,  removing  his  hat  and  scratching  his  head 
meditatively ;  for  the  first  time  his  face  wore  a  somewhat 
serious,  not  to  say  puzzled  expression,  and  his  eyes  tra- 
velled dubiously  over  the  flaunting  array  of  blossoming 
weeds  on  the  roof. 

"  I  wonder,"  quoth  Daniel  to  himself,  "  if  'twould  look 
better  if  I  was  to  scrape  out  them  there.  Maybe  the 
thatch  wouldn't  hold  together,  though — it's  a-been  agrowed 
over  sich  a  many  year,  I  d'  'low  I'll  let  'em  bide — they  do 
look  well  enough  where  they  be." 


THE  SPUR  OF  THE  MOMENT  281 

And,  after  coming  to  this  decision,  he  was  preparing  to 
descend  from  the  ladder  when  he  was  suddenly  hailed  by 
a  chorus  of  voices  from  the  lane  on  the  other  side  of  his 
garden-hedge. 

"  Hello,  Dan'l !  "— "  Hallo,  old  cock  ! "— "  Well,  bwoy, 
bist  getten'  all  to  rights  afore  weddin'  ?  " 

Daniel  put  on  his  hat  and  turned  slowly  round  on  his 
rung. 

"  E-es,"  he  said,  grinning  sheepishly,  "  that's  about  it. 
The  job's  to  be  done  the  day  arter  to-morrow." 

A  party  of  young  men  had  halted  just  outside  his  little 
gate  ;  it  was  Saturday  and,  though  only  five  o'clock,  their 
field-work  was  over  and  they  were  now  on  their  way  to 
the  allotments  ;  a  rough,  sunburnt,  merry-looking  group, 
most  of  them  bearing  the  marks  of  the  day's  toil  on 
heated  face  and  earth-stained  apparel ;  one  or  two  of 
them  with  spade  and  fork  on  shoulder,  others  with  dang- 
ling empty  sacks.  September  was  drawing  to  a  close  and 
potato-getting  was  in  full  swing.  It  was  observable  that 
as  they  addressed  Chaffey,  each  man  assumed  a  knowing 
and  jocular  air ;  this  one  nudged  his  neighbour,  that  one 
winked  at  Daniel  himself. 

"  You'm  to  be  called  home  for  last  time  to-morrow,  bain't 
ye,  Dan'l  ? "  inquired  Abel  Bolt,  elbowing  himself  to  the 
front. 

"  E-es,"  responded  Daniel,  "  we  be  to  be  called  last  time 
to-morrow  an'  tied-up  o'  Monday." 

Abel  threw  back  his  head  and  laughed  uproariously. 

"  I  should  like  to  come  to  your  weddin',  Dan  !  "  he  cried 
ecstatically,  "  I  d'  'low  I  should." 


282  DORSET)  DEAR 

"  Ye  won't,  though,"  retorted  Chaffey.  "  Yell  be  jist  in 
the  thick  o'  your  ploughin' — I  thought  o'  that.  I  axed 
the  Reverend  to  fix  time  a-purpose.  No,  we'll  be  wed 
on  the  quiet,  Phoebe  an'  me — I  settled  that." 

"There,  'tis  real  ill-natured  o'  you,  Dan,"  cried  one  of 
the  youths,  looking  archly  at  his  comrades.  "  Sich  a 
pretty  sight  as  'twill  be.  Sure  it  will !  And  your  missus, 
sich  a  beauty ! " 

"  Haw,  haw,  haw !  "  came  the  chorus  again. 

"  Her  eyes,  now,"  giggled  Abel,  "  'twill  be  sich  a  con- 
venience for  the  man  to  have  a  missus  what  can  keep  one 
eye  on  the  dinner  an'  t'other  on  the  garden." 

"  An'  her  figure,"  said  Jarge  Vacher,  "  did  ye  have  to 
make  the  gate  anyways  larger,  Dan  ? " 

"  No,  there'd  be  no  need  for  that,"  returned  Abel,  before 
Daniel  could  open  his  mouth.  "  The  woman  could  get  in 
very  nicely  sideways,  more  pertick'ler  since  she  can  see 
all  round  her  like." 

Chaffey's  complexion  had  been  gradually  deepening  from 
crimson  to  purple,  and  from  purple  to  a  fine  rich  mahogany, 
his  smile  had  widened  to  an  extent  that  was  positively 
painful,  but  he  spoke  with  unimpaired  good-humour. 

"  Neighbours,  you  may  laugh,  but  I  do  know  what  I'm 
about.  I  do  know  very  well  Phoebe  Cosser  bain't  a 
beauty,  but  she's  good,  and  I  d'  'low  she'll  make  I  com- 
fortable— an'  that's  the  main  p'int  to  look  to.  She  mid 
be  a  bit  older  nor  what  I  be " 

Here  the  irreverent  group  in  the  road  began  to  nudge 
each  other  and  chuckle  afresh  ;  Chaffey  sat  down  suddenly 
on  the  top  of  his  ladder. 


THE  SPUR  OF  THE  MOMENT  283 

"What  I  d'  say,  neighbours,  is,"  he  began,  "what  my 
notion  be — if  ye'd  give  over  sniggering  for  a  moment,"  he 
cried  with  gathering  ire,  "  I  could  make  it  plain  to  ye." 

But  they  wouldn't  give  over ;  the  merriment  increased 
instead  of  diminishing,  and  at  last  Daniel,  exclaiming  that 
he  would  be  dalled  if  he  stood  it  any  longer,  leaped  to  the 
ground,  and,  dashing  into  his  house,  bolted  the  door 
behind  him. 

His  friends,  trooping  into\the  little  garden,  serenaded 
him  with  a  ballad  which  they  thought  suitable  to  his  case, 
and  having  goaded  him  into  declaring  he  would  come  out 
in  a  minute  and  break  their  heads  for  them,  withdrew  in 
good  order  and  pursued  their  interrupted  course  to  the 
allotments. 

Daniel  waited  until  the  last  heavy  footfall  had  died  away, 
the  last  battered  hat  brim  disappeared,  and  then  came  forth 
with  a  vengeful  expression  on  his  usually  good-tempered 
face.  He  picked  up  the  hammer  and  nails  which  he  had 
scattered  in  his  flight,  shouldered  his  ladder  and  carried  it 
round  to  the  little  shed  in  the  rear,  and  then  came  back 
slowly  to  resume  his  labours  in  the  garden. 

"  She  be  a  good  'un,"  he  muttered  to  himself,  "  let  'em 
say  what  they  like,  she  be." 

He  paused  to  uplift  and  secure  a  tuft  of  golden  rod 
which  had  fallen  across  the  path. 

"  I  never  did  take  so  mich  notice  of  her  eyes,"  he  said 
to  himself.  "  They  bain't  so  crooked  as  that  comes  to— 
they  can  see  well  enough,  and  that's  the  p'int." 

He  plucked  out  a  tuft  of  groundsel  which  had  hitherto 
escaped  his  vigilant  eye. 


284  DORSET  DEAR 

"  There's  nothin'  so  much  amiss  wi'  her  shape  neither — 
I  d'  'low  I'd  sooner  have  a  nice  little  comfortable  round- 
about woman  nor  a  great  gawky  faymale  like  a  zowel  or 
a  speaker.  If  she's  pluffy,  she's  sprack,  an'  that's  the 
p'int." 

Whenever  Daniel  uttered  this  last  phrase  he  seemed  to 
pluck  up  courage,  and  a  momentary  cheerfulness  returned 
to  his  face,  which,  nevertheless,  speedily  became  overcast 
again.  Dall  it  all,  he  thought,  why  couldn't  folks  keep 
their  tongues  quiet.  What  was  it  to  them  what  kind  of 
missus  Daniel  chose,  that  they  must  come  tormenting 
and  ballyragging  him  ?  He  didn't  meddle  wi'  nobody, 
and  didn't  want  nobody  to  meddle  wi'  he,  but  there,  even 
the  lord's  roughrider  stopped  him  on  the  road  to  deliver, 
as  his  opinion,  that  he,  Daniel,  had  chosen  a  plain-headed 
one.  Old  Mrs.  Inkpen  of  the  shop  had  laughed  at  him 
for  marrying  a  woman  so  many  years  older  than  himself. 
Well,  she'd  be  all  the  more  sensible. 

"  Let  'em  laugh  if  they  do  have  a  mind  to ;  it  '11  not 
hurt  Phcebe  and  I.  We'll  soon  show  'em  who's  in  the 
right." 

And  with  that,  he  heaved  a  sigh  and  went  indoors. 

Next  day  he  went  to  call  for  Phcebe,  whom  he  had 
promised  to  escort  to  afternoon  church.  She  stood  await- 
ing him  in  her  own  doorway,  which  she  filled  up  pretty 
well  it  must  be  owned — a  little  ball  of  a  woman  with  the 
ugliest,  merriest  face  it  was  possible  to  conceive.  She 
wore  a  very  fine  purple  hat  with  a  feather  in  the  middle 
and  two  red  roses  on  each  side,  and  this  arrangement  of 
headgear  seemed  to  accentuate  the  somewhat  roving  pro- 


THE  SPUR  OF  THE  MOMENT  285 

pensities  of  her  eyes.  Pinned  to  her  jacket  was  a  bunch 
of  natural  roses  that  vied  with  these  in  hue,  and  in  one 
stout  hand  she  waved  a  posy,  similar  in  colour  and  almost 
equal  in  size,  which  was  intended  for  her  swain. 

At  sight  of  her  bright  face  Daniel  forgot  all  his  troubles, 
and  after  bestowing  a  sounding  salute  on  her  hard  red 
cheek,  stood  straight  and  stiff  to  be  decorated,  then,  "  Come 
along,  my  dear,"  said  he,  and  they  set  forth  arm  in  crook, 
entirely  satisfied  with  each  other. 

Nevertheless,  as  they  walked  through  the  churchyard, 
Daniel  was  conscious  of  a  dawning  sense  of  discomfort, 
for  was  not  that  Abel  Bolt  who  stood  under  the  yew  tree, 
and  who  stepped  aside  with  such  exaggerated  deference 
to  let  them  pass  ?  Even  his  hat  seemed  to  Daniel  to  be 
cocked  with  a  sarcastic  air.  Martha  Hansford  and  Freza 
Pitcher  nudged  each  other  as  Phcebe  preceded  him  up 
the  church — he  was  almost  sure  he  saw  Martha  spread  out 
her  hands  in  allusion  to  Phoebe's  figure,  which  certainly 
looked  particularly  ample  in  her  thick  cloth  jacket.  To 
increase  his  uneasiness  Jarge  Vacher  took  up  his  position 
immediately  behind  him.  It  must  be  owned  that  this 
proximity  was  seriously  detrimental  to  poor  Daniel's  de- 
votions. When  Phcebe  found  the  place  for  him  and 
invited  him  to  sing  out  of  her  own  hymn-book  he  heard 
a  choking  sound  in  his  rear,  which  he  knew  proceeded 
from  Jarge.  As  he  stole  a  cautious  glance  round  he 
observed  that  the  eyes  of  more  than  one  member  of  the 
congregation  directed  towards  him  and  the  unconscious 
Phcebe,  who  happened  to  be  in  particularly  fine  voice 
and  was  singing  away  with  entire  satisfaction.  Daniel 


286  DORSET  DEAR 

fidgeted  and  reddened  and  grew  more  and  more  wrath- 
ful. He  couldn't  see  anything  to  laugh  at,  not  he.  The 
maid  was  right  to  sing  out,  and  to  be  a  bit  more  tender 
than  usual  to  the  man  who,  before  twenty-four  hours  were 
out,  would  be  her  husband.  Yes,  it  would  be  all  over  by 
this  time  to-morrow — that  was  one  comfort ;  and  it  was  a 
mercy  he  had  fixed  an  early  hour ;  none  of  these  impudent 
chaps  would  be  there  to  dather  him. 

At  the  conclusion  of  the  service  he  started  up  and 
hurried  from  the  church  with  what  seemed  to  Phoebe, 
as  she  waddled  in  his  wake,  unseemly  haste.  Indeed 
they  very  nearly  had  their  first  serious  "miff"  on  the 
subject.  However,  once  out  of  sight  of  the  mockers,  and 
wandering  with  his  sweetheart  in  the  quiet  lanes,  where 
the  hedgerows  were  all  ablaze  with  scarlet  berries,  and 
primrose  and  amber  leaves  made  little  points  of  light 
here  and  there  amid  the  more  sober  September  green, 
he  forgot  his  discomfiture. 

"  We  be  like  to  have  a  hard  winter,"  said  Phoebe,  as 
they  paused  to  look  over  the  first  gate  in  the  prescribed 
fashion  of  rustic  lovers. 

"  I  don't  care,"  returned  Daniel,  gazing  at  her  amour- 
ously  from  beneath  his  tilted  hat.  "  I've  got  a  snug  little 
place  of  my  own  and  a  missus  to  make  me  comfortable. 
It  may  snow  for  all  as  I  do  care." 

Alas  for  Daniel !  His  jubilation  was  short-lived.  Early 
on  the  morrow  he  was  up  and  doing,  putting  the  final 
touches  to  his  preparations  for  welcoming  his  bride,  and 
he  set  forth  in  good  time  to  join  the  wedding  party,  whom 
he  found  ready  and  waiting  for  him,  sitting  stiffly  in  a 


THE  SPUR  OF  THE  MOMENT  287 

row  in  the  parlour.  Mr.  Cosser,  magnificent  in  broadcloth 
and  his  father's  deerskin  waistcoat ;  Mrs.  Cosser  in  a  violet 
gown  and  a  Paisley  shawl ;  Dick  Cosser,  Phcebe's  younger 
brother,  in  a  suit  of  checks  that  would  set  an  aesthetic 
person's  teeth  on  edge  ;  Phcebe  herself  in  a  crimson  silk 
with  a  white  hat  and  a  fluffy  tippet,  over  which  her  eyes 
twinkled  with  most  uncanny  effect.  Daniel  privately 
thought  she  looked  very  well,  and  extended  his  arm  to 
his  future  mother-in-law,  with  a  bosom  swelling  with 
pride.  Mr.  Cosser  had  already  preceded  them  with 
Phcebe,  and  Dick  brought  up  the  rear  with  his  cousin 
Mary  Ann,  a  tall  maid  of  sixteen,  who  had  an  unusual 
capacity  for  giggling  ;  these  two  were  to  officiate  respect- 
ively as  best  man  and  bridesmaid.  Daniel's  parents  had 
long  been  dead,  and  most  of  his  relations  scattered,  but 
his  married  sister  who  lived  at  some  little  distance,  had 
promised  to  drive  over  and  meet  them  at  the  church. 
She  and  her  husband  and  their  three  or  four  olive-branches 
were,  in  fact,  already  installed  in  one  of  the  front  pews 
when  the  little  procession  arrived  ;  the  clergyman  was  in 
readiness,  and  the  ceremony  began  without  delay. 

All  went  well  at  first ;  Phcebe  was  jubilant  and  ex- 
tremely audible 'in  her  replies,  Daniel  gruff  and  sheepish 
as  it  behoved  a  rustic  bridegroom  to  be,  but  just  as  the 
Rector  uplifting  his  voice  inquired  "  Dost  thou  take  this 
woman  to  be  thy  wedded  wife? "  a  certain  scuffling  sound 
was  heard  at  the  further  end  of  the  church,  and  the  half- 
made  husband  might  have  been  seen  to  start  and  falter. 
"  Daniel,  wilt  thou  have  this  woman  to  be  thy  wedded 
wife?"  repeated  the  Rector  sternly. 


288  DORSET  DEAR 

Suppressed  titters  were  heard,  not  only  from  the  direc- 
tion of  the  porch,  but  actually  from  the  aisles.  For  the 
life  of  him,  Daniel  could  not  resist  turning  his  head  right 
and  left  with  an  anguished  gaze.  Horror!  There  was 
Abel  Bolt  peering  from  behind  one  pillar,  and  surely  that 
was  Jarge's  impudent  face  grinning  at  him  from  the  oppo- 
site side.  The  Rector  glared  through  his  spectacles  and 
uplifted  his  voice  yet  more. 

"  Daniel ! "  he  cried  emphatically,  "  wilt  thou  have  this 
woman  to  be  thy  wedded  wife  ? " 

The  best  man  cleared  his  throat  warningly,  and  the 
bride  turning  a  reproachful  glance  somewhere  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  west  window,  nudged  him  with  her  elbow. 

"  Speak  up ! "  she  whispered.     This  was  the  last  straw. 

Hardly  knowing  what  he  did,  Daniel  started  away  from 
her,  and  whisking  round  charged  through  the  bridal  party, 
down  the  nave,  thrust  aside  the  knot  of  gaping  onlookers 
in  the  porch,  descended  the  flight  of  steps  apparently  with 
one  stride,  and  bounding  over  the  lychgate  fled  into  the 
fields  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  road. 

Phcebe,  with  a  stifled  shriek,  hastened  after  him  with 
all  the  speed  that  her  distress  of  mind  and  amplitude  of 
person  would  admit  of,  but  was  almost  knocked  over  by 
her  brother  Dick,  who  had  started  in  hot  pursuit  of  the 
fugitive.  Mary  Ann,  not  to  be  outdone,  gallopaded  in  the 
rear,  and  Mr.  Cosser  with  muttered  threats  of  vengeance 
hobbled  in  her  wake  at  a  considerable  distance. 

"  Yoicks !  Gone  away ! "  shouted  Abel  Bolt,  tumbling 
out  of  the  church  followed  by  Jarge  and  the  whole  of  the 
idle  crew  who  had  brought  about  the  catastrophe.  In 


THE  SPUR  OF  THE  MOMENT  289 

another  minute,  the  whole  party  joined  in  the  chase,  and 
the  church  was  left  entirely  deserted  except  for  the  aston- 
ished and  scandalised  Rector,  his  clerk  and  poor  old  Mrs. 
Cosser,  who  remained  dissolved  in  tears  in  the  front  bench. 
Even  Daniel's  own  relations  had  joined  in  pursuit,  his 
sister  announcing  breathlessly,  as  she  hastened  forth,  that 
he  must  have  gone  out  of  his  mind. 

Meanwhile  the  fugitive,  in  spite  of  the  tightness  of  his 
wedding  boots  and  the  stiffness  of  his  new  clothes,  careered 
across  countiy,  with  almost  incredible  speed.  Now  his 
blue-coated  form  might  be  seen  leaping  a  hedge,  now  scud- 
ding over  a  stretch  of  pasture.  Dick,  the  best  man,  was 
the  nearest  to  him,  family  pride  lending  wings  to  his  long 
legs,  but  even  he  was  soon  distanced,  and  by  the  time  he 
had  reached  the  second  bank  and  forced  his  way  through 
the  thorns  and  briars  which  topped  it,  the  runaway  bride- 
groom was  nowhere  to  be  seen.  Dick  was  at  fault,  and 
though  when  the  rest  of  the  pursuers  came  up  they  scoured 
the  fields,  and  "drew"  the  thickets,  and  hunted  up  and 
down  by  the  banks,  and  even  searched  the  willow-bed  by 
the  river,  no  trace  of  the  fugitive  was  to  be  found.  Phcebe 
had  come  to  a  standstill  in  the  midst  of  the  third  field, 
where  her  father  presently  joined  her.  They  stood  pant- 
ing opposite  each  other  for  a  moment  or  two,  after  which 
Phcebe  unfolding  a  lace-bordered  handkerchief  wiped  her 
brow ;  then  restoring  it  to  her  pocket,  she  remarked  in  a 
tone  of  conviction. 

"  I  d'  'low  he've  a-changed  his  mind." 

"  Looks  like  it,"  returned  her  parent  shortly.  "  Ye  can 
have  the  law  on  him  for  this." 

19 


290  DORSET  DEAR 

"  That  wouldn't  be  much  comfort  to  I,"  she  retorted. 
"  What  be  goin'  to  do  then  ?  " 

"  I  d'  'low  I'll  go  home  along,"  said  the  forsaken  bride 
with  decision.  "  There  bain't  no  use  in  standin'  here  for 
the  folks  to  gawk  at,  an'  I  mid  just  so  well  take  up  one  o' 
they  fowls.  I  shouldn't  think  any  o'  Dan'l's  folks  'ud  want 
to  show  their  faces  at  our  place." 

"  I  d'  'low  they  won't,"  returned  Mr.  Cosser  in  a  menac- 
ing tone,  as  though  who  should  say,  "  they'd  better  not ! " 
"Let's  be  steppin'  then,"  said   Phcebe.      "You'd  best 
look  in  at  church  and  fetch    mother.      I'll    make  haste 
home." 

"  That  there  'Dan'l  o'  yourn  be  a  reg'lar  rascal ! "  shouted 
her  father. 

Phcebe,  who  had  already  proceeded  some  paces  on  her 
way,  turned  her  head  and  called  back  over  her  shoulder  : 
"  I  can't  say  as  how  he've  acted  so  very  well !  "  Then 
she  went  on  again. 

When  the  baffled  hunting  party  finally  gave  up  the 
chase  and  returned  to  Cosser's,  partly  with  the  hope  of 
being  commended  for  their  zeal,  which  they  felt  must  have 
atoned  for  all  previous  errors,  partly  to  see  how  the  for- 
saken bride  bore  herself,  they  found  that  damsel  in  her 
working  dress,  "  salting  down  "  a  fine  piece  of  beef. 

"  There'll  be  a  terr'ble  lot  o'  waste  over  this  'ere  job," 
she  remarked,  "  but  we  must  do  our  best  to  save  all  what 
we  can." 

"  We  couldn't  find  en  nowheres,  Phcebe,"  cried  Dick. 
"  Abel  here  d'  say  he's  very  like  drownded  ;  serve  en  right 
if  he  be." 


THE  SPUR  OF  THE  MOMENT  291 

Phoebe  paused  in  her  labours  to  cast  a  reflective  glance 
at  the  horizon. 

"  I'll  go  warrant  he  bain't  drownded,"  she  said.  "  He 
don't  want  to  marry  I,  that's  what  'tis.  He  wouldn't  ha' 
married  I  a  bit  the  more  if  you'd  ha'  catched  en." 

"  But  what's  the  meanin'  of  it,"  thundered  Mr.  Cosser 
from  his  corner,  "what's  the  meanin'  on't,  I  want  to 
know.  He  did  seem  to  know  his  own  mind  afore — very 
well  he  did." 

"  I  think  he  was  gallied  like,"  said  Phcebe.  "  E-es,  I  d' 
'low  that's  what  he  wer'." 

Abel  and  Jarge  began  to  edge  away  from  the  group, 
but  Phoebe  went  on  without  seeming  to  notice  them. 

"  When  Parson  did  ax  en  the  question  straight-out  like, 
I  d1  'low  he  felt  'fraid.  That's  what  'twas,  he  was  'fraid." 

Withdrawing  her  gaze  from  the  distant  hills  and  heav- 
ing a  gentle  sigh  she  carried  away  her  beef ;  and  as  there 
was  no  indication  that  any  outsider  was  expected  to  join 
the  family  circle,  or  indeed  to  partake  of  any  refreshment, 
the  bystanders  walked  slowly  away,  and  the  Cosser  family 
proceeded  gloomily  to  divest  themselves  of  their  holiday 
clothes. 

It  was  quite  dark  when  Daniel  rose  from  his  cramped 
and  exceedingly  moist  hiding-place  in  the  sedges  by  the 
river,  and  slowly  betook  himself  homewards.  During  the 
many  hours  he  had  lain  cowering  there,  listening  to  the 
voices  of  his  pursuers,  he  had  had  leisure  to  repent  of  and 
marvel  at  the  senseless  impulse  which  had  brought  him  to 
his  present  plight. 

"  Well,  I  be  a  stun  poll !  "  he  had  said  to  himself  over 
19  * 


292  DORSET  DEAR 

and  over  again.  "  I  be  a  dalled  stunpoll !  What  the 
mischief  did  I  do  it  for  ?  Whatever  will  the  poor  maid 
think  of  I  ?  She'll  never  look  at  I  again — she'll  never  take 
the  leastest  notice  of  me." 

More  than  once  he  had  been  half-inclined  to  rush  out  of 
his  lair  and  give  himself  up  to  justice,  but  how  could  he 
face  that  grinning  multitude  ?  If  they  had  made  fun  of 
him  before,  what  would  they  do  now  ?  Besides  her  family 
were  furious,  and  the  rustic  mind  loves  justice  of  a  certain 
rough  kind.  Daniel  was  not  more  of  a  coward  than  an- 
other, but  he  had  a  wholesome  dread  of  broken  bones. 
No,  he  dursn't  show  his  face  for  a  long  time,  that  was 
certain  ;  and  as  for  ever  making  up  with  Phoebe  again,  it 
was  out  of  the  question — no  woman  could  forgive  such 
treatment. 

Very  disconsolately,  indeed,  did  Daniel  turn  in  at  his 
own  little  gate  ;  even  in  the  dusk  he  could  see  how  nice 
the  place  looked,  how  complete  were  his  arrangements. 
He  opened  the  door  and  slunk  in,  dropping  into  the 
nearest  chair  with  a  groan.  After  quite  a  long  time  he 
made  up  his  mind  to  strike  a  match  and  look  round, 
though  he  knew  the  sight  of  the  cosy  little  room  would 
increase  his  melancholy.  He  lit  the  blue  glass  lamp  which 
had  been  placed  in  readiness  on  the  dresser,  and  with  a 
heavy  sigh  poked  up  the  fire  which  had  been  carefully 
"  kept  in  "  with  a  thick  layer  of  wet  slack.  The  light 
leaped  on  the  newly-papered  walls  with  their  neat  design 
of  blue  roses  on  a  buff  ground — he  had  papered  these 
walls  himself,  in  honour  of  the  coming  event — on  the  two 
elbow-chairs,  just  re-covered  with  a  gay  chintz.  On  the 


THE  SPUR  OF  THE  MOMENT  293 

table  in  the  centre  was  a  small  tray  with  a  biblical  design 
in  prodigiously  bright  colours,  which  bore  a  curious  old 
decanter  containing  elderberry  wine,  a  plate  of  mixed 
biscuits  and  two  tumblers.  In  setting  these  forth  that 
morning  he  had  thought  with  tender  glee  of  how  Phoebe's 
first  wifely  task  would  be  to  "  hot-up  "  some  of  that  wine 
in  one  of  her  new  saucepans.  Had  it  not  been  for  his  own 
inconceivable  folly,  they  might  at  that  very  moment  have 
been  sitting  face  to  face  drmking  each  other's  health. 
And  now  !  Daniel  dropped  his  face  in  his  hands  and 
fairly  sobbed. 

One  day  about  a  fortnight  after  the  untoward  event 
which  had  so  rudely  quenched  her  simple  hopes,  Phcebe 
Cosser  was  standing  by  the  wash-tub  up  to  her  eyes  in 
suds,  with  Mary  Ann  similarly  engaged ;  while  Mrs. 
Cosser  in  the  inner  room  laboriously  ironed  out  a  few  of 
the  fine  things  which  had  already  passed  through  her 
daughter's  hands.  All  at  once,  Mary  Ann,  raising  her 
eyes,  uttered  a  little  scream  which  immediately  lost  itself 
in  a  fit  of  giggles. 

"  There  !  I  never  did  see  such  a  foolish  maid  !  "  com- 
mented Phoebe  severely.  "  Whatever  be  gawkin'  at  ?  " 

"  Lard  !  There  now  !  Well,  to  be  sure  !  "  ejaculated 
Mary  Ann  between  spasmodic  titters.  "  Look  yonder 
behind  the  thorn  tree  !  " 

The  Cossers'  garden  sloped  downwards  towards  the 
road,  and  a  gnarled  May  tree  filled  the  angle  where  the 
front  hedge  joined  that  which  separated  their  piece  of 
ground  from  their  neighbour's ;  the  twisted  trunk  was 
split  down  to  a  few  feet  from  the  ground,  and  through 


294  DORSET  DEAR 

this  aperture  Daniel  ChafTey's  woeful  face  was  peering. 
As  Phoebe  turned  towards  him  he  immediately  dived  out 
of  sight.  After  waiting  a  moment  and  finding  he  did  not 
reappear  Phoebe  philosophically  went  on  with  her  washing. 
In  a  few  minutes,  however,  Mary  Ann  began  to  giggle 
afresh.  Phoebe  whisked  round  so  sharply  that  she  caught 
a  glimpse  of  her  former  lover's  vanishing  face. 

"  Don't  take  no  notice,"  she  said  sternly,  implanting  a 
vicious  nudge  in  her  cousin's  ribs  ;  after  which  she  shifted 
her  position  so  as  to  turn  her  back  to  the  thorn. 

After  another  short  interval,  however,  the  sound  of  her 
own  name  breathed  in  the  most  dolorous  of  tones  caused 
her  to  turn  her  head  once  more.  Daniel  had  thrown  an 
arm  round  each  half  of  the  trunk,  and  was  craning  forth 
through  the  gap,  his  face  vying  in  colour  with  the  clusters 
of  haws  which  surrounded  it. 

"  Phoebe  !  "  he  pleaded  with  a  gusty  sigh. 

"  Well  ?  "  returned  she,  slowly  wiping  the  suds  from  her 
stout  red  arms. 

"  Phoebe,  I've  acted  terr'ble  bad  to  ye." 

"  E-es,  you  have,"  replied  Phoebe  succinctly. 

"  I  d'  'low  I  have,"  he  agreed  dejectedly.  "  I  be  pure 
sorry,  dalled  if  I  bain't." 

Miss  Cosser  snorted. 

"  I've  a-repented,  my  dear,  ever  since.  E-es,  I  have ! 
Sure  I  have  !  Phoebe  !  " 

"  Well  ? " 

"  I've  a-been  thinkin' — would  ye  go  to  church  wi'  me 
now  ? " 

"  This    minute  ?  "    queried    Phoebe   with  alacrity  ;    the 


THE  SPUR  OF  THE  MOMENT  295 

muscles  of  her  face  relaxed,  and  she  twitched  down  first 
one  of  her  rolled-up  sleeves  and  then  the  other. 

"  E-es,  this  very  minute ;  the  Reverend  'ull  tie  us  up 
right  enough  if  I  ax  en." 

"  Gie  me  a  clean  apron  !  "  cried  Phcebe,  turning  quickly 
to  Mary  Ann  and  jerking  at  the  string  of  the  very  damp 
garment  which  protected  her  dress. 

She  already  wore  her  hat,  and  by  the  time  her  cousin, 
who  had  vanished  with  a  bo^und,  reappeared  shaking  out 
the  crisp  folds  of  the  clean  white  apron,  she  had  unpinned 
her  skirt. 

"  Now,  then,"  she  remarked  after  tying  it  on,  and  she 
fixed  her  best  eye  with  a  business-like  air  on  her  Daniel, 
who  had  been  gazing  at  her  with  almost  incredulous  rap- 
ture. He  left  off  embracing  the  hawthorn  and  reached 
the  garden  gate  at  the  same  moment  as  Phoebe  herself; 
and  before  Mrs.  Cosser,  attracted  by  Mary  Ann's  shrieks 
of  enjoyment,  had  had  time  to  reach  the  door  they  had 
set  off  arm-in-crook  and  disappeared  round  the  angle  of 
the  lane. 


"A  TERR'BLE  VOOLISH  LITTLE  MAID." 

THE  cottage  next  door  to  Mrs.  Cross  had  long  been  occu- 
pied by  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Frizzell,  but  when  that  good  couple 
went  to  live  "  Darchester-side  "  near  their  married  daughter 
Susan,  their  discarded  dwelling  was  taken  by  a  respectable 
widow  woman  named  Chaffey ;  and  on  a  certain  autumn 
morning  she  entered  into  possession. 

From  under  the  green  "shed"  of  his  cart  the  carrier 
extracted  a  variety  of  goods  and  chattels,  exciting  keen 
interest  in  the  mind  of  Mrs.  Cross,  who,  with  her  nose 
flattened  against  the  leaded  panes  of  her  bedroom  window, 
watched  the  proceedings  closely.  The  large  articles  of 
furniture  had  arrived  on  the  previous  day  in  a  waggon — a 
wooden  bedstead,  so  solid  in  construction  and  uncompro- 
mising in  shape  that  its  legs  had  hung  over  the  edge ;  an 
oak  settle  and  carved  linen  chest  at  which  Mrs.  Cross  had 
turned  up  her  nose,  deeming  them  "  terr'ble  old-fayshioned  ". 

She  was  better  pleased  with  the  parlour  suite  of  painted 
wood  cushioned  with  brightly  coloured  cretonne — couch, 
armchair  and  three  small  chairs  ;  the  lot  must  have  cost 
at  least  three  pound  ten,  thought  Mrs.  Cross,  for  she  had 
seen  the  like  in  the  upholsterer's  window  at  Branston. 
Her  respect  for  the  newcomer  immediately  increased,  and 
this  morning  as  she  squinted  down  at  her  from  her  attic, 

296 


"A  TERR'BLE  VOOLISH  LITTLE  MAID"       297 

vainly  endeavouring  to  see  all  round  her  at  once,  she  was 
much  impressed  by  her  appearance. 

Mrs.  Chaffey  was  a  spare  woman  of  middle  height, 
wearing  a  decent  brown  stuff  gown  and  grey  fringed  shawl. 
Her  black  bonnet  with  its  yellow  flowers  was  quite  "  fay- 
shionable  "  in  shape,  and  though  her  black  kid  gloves  were 
unbuttoned  and  had  moreover  grown  somewhat  grey  about 
the  finger-tips,  they  nevertheless  conveyed  the  idea  of 
exceeding  respectability. 

"  Quite  a  genteel  sort  o'  body,"  commented  Mrs.  Cross, 
"  and  do  seem  to  know  what  she  be  about  too,"  she  added 
a  moment  later,  as  Mrs.  Chaffey,  having  entered  the  house 
presently  emerged  again,  having  changed  her  headgear 
for  a  gathered  print  sun-bonnet,  and  protected  her  dress 
by  the  addition  of  a  large  white  apron. 

Mrs.  Cross  screwed  her  head  in  the  other  angle  of  the 
window  and  again  squinted  down. 

"  That's  a  feather  bed,"  she  observed  as  a  large  tied-up 
bundle  was  placed  in  the  expectant  arms  of  the  newcomer 
who  clearly  staggered  beneath  its  weight ;  "  carrier  did 
ought  to  carry  it  for  she.  Pillows  next !  And  a  basket — 
chancy  most  like.  Fender — fire-irons — kettle — pots  and 
a  pan  or  two — very  small  'uns  they  be.  'Tis  but  a  lone 
'ooman  they  d'  say,  she'll  not  want  so  much  cookin'— 
clock — hassock " 

The  carrier's  voice  now  interrupted  the  inventory : 
"  This  'ere  basket,  mum — that  do  make  the  lot.  I  hope 
ye'll  find  all  reg'lar,  mum,  and  no  damage  done." 

Mrs.  Cross,  who  had  been  breathing  hard  in  her  excite- 
ment, was  at  this  point  constrained  to  polish  the  window 


298  DORSET  DEAR 

with  her  apron  ;  by  the  time  the  operation  was  concluded 
and  her  nose  again  applied,  Mrs.  Chaffey  had  taken  out 
her  purse  and  was  slowly  counting  out  a  certain  number 
of  coins  into  the  carrier's  hand.  Mrs.  Cross  could  not  for 
the  life  of  her  see  how  many,  but  she  observed  that  the 
man's  face  lengthened. 

"  Bain't  there  nothin'  for  luck  ?  "  he  inquired.  "  I  did 
take  a  deal  o'  trouble  wi'  they  arnaments  and  sich-like." 

"  You've  a-had  what  I  did  agree  for,"  responded  Mrs. 
Chaffey  with  dignity  ;  her  voice  was  high  and  clear,  and 
as  she  spoke  she  turned  towards  the  cottage  with  a  final 
air. 

"  I  d'  'low  she's  a  bit  near,"  remarked  Mrs.  Cross  as 
she  retired  from  the  window,  rubbing  her  nose  pensively. 
"  Poor  Martha  Frizzel !  She  was  a  good  soul,  she  was  ! 
Just  about ! " 

She  stood  a  moment  looking  round  the  little  attic  cham- 
ber, but  without  seeing  either  the  somewhat  untidy  bed 
with  its  soiled  patchwork  quilt,  or  the  washstand  with  its 
cracked  jug,  or  the  torn  curtain  pinned  half-across  the 
window ;  she  saw  instead  her  neighbour's  shrewd,  kindly 
face  bending  over  a  pot  of  well-stewed  tea,  or  nodding 
briefly  in  response  to  sundry  requests  for  the  use  of  a 
bucket,  or  the  loan  of  a  pan,  and  sometimes  a  few  "  spuds  ". 

"  Mind  you  do  bring  'em  back,"  was  all  Mrs.  Frizzel 
would  say.  Well,  sometimes  Mrs.  Cross  did  bring  them 
back,  and  sometimes  Martha  came  and  fetched  'em,  but 
she  never  made  a  bit  of  fuss,  and  was  always  as  kind  and 
neighbourly  as  she  could  be. 

Mrs.  ChafTey  must  be  getting  a  bit  settled  by  this  time, 


"A  TERR'BLE  VOOLISH  LITTLE  MAID"       299 

Mrs.  Cross  thought,  and  resolved  to  pop  in  and  ask  how 
she  was  getting  on.  She  smoothed  her  rough  hair  with 
the  palms  of  her  hands,  jerked  down  her  sleeves,  which  she 
usually  wore  rolled  up  till  dinner-time,  not  because  she 
fatigued  herself  with  over-much  work,  but  because  it 
seemed  somehow  the  proper  thing  to  do  of  a  morning  ; 
she  twitched  her  apron  straight,  pinned  over  a  gap  in 
her  bodice — Mrs.  Cross  was  a  great  believer  in  the  efficacy 
of  pins,  and  rarely  demearied  herself  by  using  a  needle 
and  thread — and  finally  composing  her  features  to  an 
expression  of  polite  and  sympathetic  interest,  strolled 
leisurely  downstairs  and  into  her  neighbour's  premises. 

Mrs.  Chaffey  was  standing  by  her  table,  busily  unpack- 
ing china,  but  when  the  other  entered  remarking  genially 
that  she  thought  she'd  just  look  in  to  see  how  Mrs. 
Chaffey  liked  her  noo  place,  and  if  she  could  lend  a 
hand  anywheres,  she  came  forward  with  a  somewhat 
frosty  smile  and  set  a  chair. 

"  Sit  down,  won't  ye  ?  "  she  said.  "  I'm  a  bit  busy,  but 
there  !  it  do  do  folks  good  to  set  a  bit  now  and  then." 

"  E-es,  indeed,  my  dear,"  responded  Mrs.  Cross  en- 
thusiastically ;  it  was  a  sentiment  she  cordially  endorsed. 
"  Lard  !  if  a  body  was  to  keep  upon  their  legs  from  morn 
till  night,  churchyard  'ud  be  fuller  at  the  year's  end  nor 
it  needs  to  be.  I  be  pure  glad  you've  a-took  this  'ere 
house,"  she  added  graciously,  "  'tis  what  I  scarce  expected 
as  any  respectable  party  'ud  come  to  it.  The  chimbley 
smokes,"  said  Mrs.  Cross  delightedly ;  "  there,  'tis  summat 
awful  how  it  do  smoke  !  And  in  the  bedroom  the  rain 
and  wind  do  fair  beat  in  when  a  bit  of  a  storm  do  come 


300  DORSET  DEAR 

— 'tis  these  'ere  queer  little  vooty  winder-panes — rain 
comes  through  them  so  easy  as  anything.  And  the 
damp !  there,  Mrs.  Frizzel,  what  lived  here  last,  used 
to  say  many  a  time  :  '  Mrs.  Cross,  my  dear,'  she  did 
use  to  say,  '  the  damp  do  seem  to  creep  into  my  very 
bwones'.  But  I  be  pure  glad  to  see  you  here,  I'm 
sure,"  she  summed  up  cheerfully,  "  and  'tis  to  be  hoped 
as  you'll  find  it  comfortable." 

Mrs.  Chaffey's  face,  always  somewhat  plaintive  in  ex- 
pression, had  become  more  and  more  dismal  as  her 
neighbour  proceeded,  and  she  now  heaved  a  deep  sigh. 

"  I  d'  'low  'twill  do  for  I,"  she  said  gloomily  ;  "  I  be 
a  lone  'ooman,  Mrs. ? " 

She  paused  tentatively. 

"  Mrs.  Cross  be  my  name,  my  dear.  E-es — Maria 
Cross.  E-es,  that  be  my  name,  my  dear." 

"Well,  Mrs.  Cross,"  resumed  the  newcomer,  taking 
up  her  discourse  in  a  voice  tuned  to  just  the  same  note 
of  melancholy  patience  as  before,  "  well,  Mrs.  Cross,  as  I 
was  a-sayin',  I  be  a  lone  'ooman,  a  widow  'ooman,  and 
I  d'  'low  I  must  look  to  be  put  upon.  J  bain't  surprised 
to  hear  o'  the  house  bein'  damp  and  the  chimbley  smokin' 
— 'tis  jest  what  I  mid  have  expected  ;  and  so  I'll  tell  the 
agent  when  I  do  go  for  to  pay  my  rent." 

"  It  did  ought  to  be  considered  in  the  rent,"  suggested 
Mrs.  Cross. 

"  It  did,"  agreed  Mrs.  Chaffey,  and  for  a  moment  her 
eyes  assumed  an  uncommonly  wide-awake  expression. 
"  I'll  mention  it  to  the  gentleman,  but  I  don't  look  for 
much  satisfaction — I  don't  indeed,  Mrs.  Cross.  A  few 


"A  TERR'BLE  VOOLISH  LITTLE  MAID"       301. 

shillin's  back  maybe,  and  a  new  chimbley-pot,  and  toils 
put  right  on  the  roof,  and  a  bit  o'  lead  paper  maybe  at 
back  o'  my  bed — no  more  nor  that,  Mrs.  Cross — they'll 
not  do  more  than  that  for  a  lone  "ooman." 

"  And  didn't  ye  never  ha'  no  childern  ?  "  inquired  Mrs. 
Cross,  with  her  head  on  one  side ;  "  it  do  seem  mollon- 
choly  for  ye  to  be  left  wi'out  nobody  to  do  a  hand's  turn 
for  'ee,  poor  soul." 

Mrs.  Chaffey  shook  her  head  with  a  portentous  ex- 
pression. 

"  A-h-h-h,  Mrs.  Cross,  my  dear,"  she  said,  "  if  there  was 
sich  a  thing  as  a  bit  o'  gratitood  in  this  world,  I  wouldn't 
be  left  wi'out  a  creature  to  do  for  me  at  my  time  o'  life. 
Childern  of  my  own  I  have  not,"  said  Mrs.  Chaffey,  with 
an  air  which  indicated  that  the  fact  was  very  much  to  her 
credit,  "but  there's  them  livin'  now  as  I've  been  more 
than  a  mother  to,  what  have  gone  and  left  I  in  my  ancient 
years — as  thankless." 

"  Lard,  now ! "  ejaculated  her  neighbour,  much  interested  ; 
"  ye  don't  tell  I  so,  Mrs.  Chaffey.  Somebody  what  you've 
a-been  very  good  to,  I  suppose,  mum  ?  " 

"  Good ! "  echoed  Mrs.  Chaffey.  "  Good's  not  the  word 
for  it,  Mrs.  Cross.  'Twas  my  first  cousin's  child — a  poor 
little  penniless  maid  what  was  brought  up  in  a  institoo- 
tion — an  orphan,  my  dear,  as  hadn't  nobody  in  the  world 
to  look  to.  Well,  when  her  time  was  up  at  the  insti- 
tootion,  I  come  for'ard,  and  I  says,  '  I'll  take  her,'  I 
says ;  '  she  don't  need  to  go  to  service,'  I  says.  '  I'm 
her  mother's  cousin,'  I  told  'em,  'and  she  can  come  to 
live  wi'  I.' ' 


302  DORSET  DEAR 

"And  they  were  delighted  of  course,"  suggested  Mrs. 
Cross,  as  she  paused  impressively. 

"  No ;  if  you'll  believe  me,  they  fair  dathered  I  wi5  axin' 
questions,  and  wantin'  I  to  make  promises  and  that. 
'  Why  didn't  I  come  and  see  the  maid  afore  ? '  says  they, 
as  if  'twas  likely,  Mrs.  Cross,  as  I'd  go  trapesin'  off  to  a 
institootion  to  ax  arter  a  maid  as  was  too  small  to  be  any 
good  to  anybody.  Then  they  did  want  I  to  give  her 
wages.  Wages  to  a  little  bit  of  a  thing  as  knowed  nothin', 
and  couldn't  do  nothin' !  '  No,'  I  says,  '  I'll  give  her  a 
home,'  I  says,  '  and  I'll  be  a  mother  to  her,  and  train  her 
same  as  if  she  was  my  own  child,  but  more  than  that  I 
will  not  do.'" 

"O'  course  not,"  agreed  Mrs.  Cross;  "lucky  enough 
she  was  to  get  sich  a  good  offer,  /  think." 

"And  so  you  may,"  agreed  the  other  solemnly,  "and 
so  I  did  often  say  ta  the  maid  herself.  '  You  may  think 
yourself  lucky,'  I  did  say  to  her  often  and  often  ;  '  many 
another,'  I  did  tell  her,  '  'ud  put  you  out  on  the  road  when 
you  do  behave  so  voolish.  But  me  !  look  at  the  patience 
I've  had  wi'  you ! '  'Twas  a  terr'ble  voolish  maid,  Mrs. 
Cross — she  was  a  bit  silly  in  herself  to  begin  with,  and 
they  institootions — Lard,  they  do  never  seem  to  teach 
a  maid  a  thing  as  'ull  be  a  bit  o'  use  to  'em  !  She  could 
scrub  a  stone  passage  a  mile  long  if  she  was  put  to  it, 
but  there  bain't  no  passages  in  cottages,  and  she  couldn't 
so  much  as  peel  a  potato  or  wash  a  cabbage.  Well,  I  did 
take  so  much  pains  wi'  her  as  a  mother  could  ha'  done — 
I  did  make  her  find  out  for  herself  how  to  hold  a  knife, 
no  matter  how  much  she  did  cut  herself.  'Find  out,'  I 


"A  TERR'BLE  VOOLISH  LITTLE  MAID"       303 

did  say ;  and  she  did  find  out.  And  when  grubs  come 
up  on  the  dish  wi'  the  cabbages,  I'd  cut  off  the  bits  as 
was  nearest  to  'em  and  put  'em  on  her  plate ;  so  she  did 
soon  learn,  ye  see.  Sleep !  that  maid  'ud  sleep  many  an' 
many  a  cold  morning  arter  I'd  pulled  blankets  off  her — 
e-es,  there  she'd  lay  so  fast  as  anything,  and  never  take 
a  bit  o'  notice  till  I  got  a  drap  o'  cold  water — an  that 
didn't  always  wake  her  up  all  to  once.  There,  she  was 
fair  aggravatin  ! — when  I  did  get  her  up  at  last  and  get 
back  to  bed  again,  I  couldn't  get  a  wink  o'  sleep  for  thinkin' 
on't." 

"  Dear,  to  be  sure !  Well  now ! "  commented  Mrs.  Cross, 
scratching  her  elbows  appreciatively. 

"  E-es,  indeed,"  continued  Mrs.  Chaffey,  warming  with 
her  theme.  "  I  did  tell  her  many  a  time,  '  You'll  come  to 
no  good  '.  Ah,  that  I  did,  and  she  didn't  come  to  no  good 
neither." 

"Didn't  she  though?"  queried  the  other  with  interest. 
"  Took  up  with  a  soldier,  very  like  ?  " 

"  Nothin'  o'  the  kind.  There  weren't  no  soldiers  any- 
wheres near  us.  'Twas  another  kind  of  a  man  altogether." 

"A-h-h,"  groaned  Mrs.  Cross  sympathetically.  "And 
I  s'pose  he  wouldn't  marry  her,  mum  ?  " 

"  E-es,  he  married  her,  Mrs.  Cross,"  responded  the  widow 
in  a  tone  of  dignified  surprise.  "  E-es,  he  married  her. 
Indeed  he  did." 

"But  there  was  carryin's  on,  I  s'pose?"  suggested 
Mrs.  Cross  respectfully. 

Mrs.  Chaffey  fixed  her  with  a  stony  stare. 

"  I'm  not  one  as  'ud  allow  no  carryin's  on,"  she  returned 


304  DORSET  DEAR 

loftily.  "  When  the  man  come  and  axed  Jenny — that  was 
her  name — I  says  to  her,  'Not  with  my  consent,'  I  says — 
well,  she  took  and  got  married  wi'out  it." 

"  Lard  ha'  mercy  me,"  ejaculated  the  listener,  seeing  that 
she  was  expected  to  say  something,  "  well,  that  was  - 
she  hesitated,  "  I  s'pose  the   man  wasn't  one   as  you'd 
ha'  picked  for  her,  Mrs.  Chaffey  ?     Maybe,"  she  added 
darkly,  "  he  wasn't  in  work  ?  " 

"  He  was  in  work,"  replied  Mrs.  Chaffey  solemnly, 
"reg'lar.  Oh,  e-es,  he  was  in  work" 

Mrs.  Cross  was  a  good  deal  mystified,  and  being  too 
uncertain  of  her  ground  to  venture  on  a  comment, 
contented  herself  with  clicking  her  tongue  and  turning 
up  her  eyes. 

"  'Tis  a  queer  tale ;  'tis  indeed,"  resumed  the  widow ; 
"  but  as  I  did  often  say  to  she  arter  the  job  was  done  : 
'  Don't  blame  me,  Jenny — what  you  did  do,  you  did  do  wi' 
your  eyes  open.  I've  a-told  you  plain,'  I  says,  '  I've  gied 
ye  the  best  advice.  Stay,'  I  says,  '  where  you're  well  off. 
You've  a-got  a  good  home,'  I  did  tell  her,  '  and  one  what 
is  a  mother  to  ye — don't  ye  go  for  to  take  up  with  this 
'ere  stranger.' " 

"  Ah,"  interrupted  Mrs.  Cross,  beginning  to  think  she 
at  last  saw  daylight,  "  he  was  a  stranger,  was  he  ?  " 

"  He  was  a  man  what  come  to  the  door,"  returned  the 
other  impressively,  "  what  come  to  the  door  like  any  tramp. 
I  did  take  en  to  be  a  tramp  first  off/' 

"  Oh,  and  he  wasn't  a  tramp  then  ? "  put  in  her  neigh- 
bour, slightly  disappointed. 

"  He  mid  ha'  been  one,"  resumed  the  narrator,  with  a 


"A  TERR'BLE  VOOLISH  LITTLE  MAID"       305 

dignified  wave  of  the  hand  intended  to  discourage  further 
unnecessary  and  frivolous  questions.  "  I'm  willing  to  tell 
'ee  about  it,  Mrs.  Cross,  if  you  be  willing  to  listen.  'Twas 
a  Sunday  of  all  days.  We'd  a'  been  pretty  busy  till  dinner- 
time. I'd  got  Jenny  up  soon  arter  four  to  get  through  wi' 
cleanin'  up — I'm  always  one  what  likes  to  have  the  place 
reg'lar  perfect,  ye  know — and  by  the  time  I  come  down 
for  breakfast  she'd  a'  got  everything  straight.  Well,  her 
an'  me  fell  out — she  did  want,  if  ye  please  to  go  to  church 
wi'  I — so  I  says  to  her,  '  Who's  to  get  dinner  then  ?  Be  I 
to  wait  on  you  ? '  says  I.  '  No,'  I  says,  'you  stay  at  home 
and  do  your  dooty,  and  you  can  go  to  the  childern's  ser- 
vice in  the  afternoon  if  you  behave  well,'  says  I.  Well,  but 
she  wouldn't  hear  reason  ;  I  did  leave  her  cryin'  like  a  baby. 

"  I  were  a  bit  late  comin'  back — chattiri'  to  this  one  and 
that  one,  an'  when  I  got  in,  what  did  I  see  but  a  strange 
man  by  the  fire.  Ye  could  ha'  knocked  I  down  wi'  a 
feather.  I  did  jist  drap  in  the  first  chair  I  come  to  and 
p'int  that  way  wi'  my  finger — I  couldn't  get  out  a  word. 

" '  Please  ye,  ma'am,'  says  Jenny  (I  wouldn't  have  her 
callin'  I  Cousin  Maria,  d'ye  see,  a  little  maid  same  as  her 
out  of  a  institootion !  She  did  offer  to  call  I  so  once  or 
twice,  but  I  soon  checked  her).  '  Please  ye,  ma'am,'  she 
says,  '  this  'ere  poor  chap  was  so  terr'ble  cold — froze  up  he 
was — he'd  a-been  walkin'  ten  mile  an'  more  in  the  snow ; 
and  when  he  axed  I  to  let  en  in  to  warm  hisself  a  bit,  I 
didn't  think  you'd  object.' 

"'You  didn't  think  I'd  object,'  says  I.  'You  little 
good-for-nothin'  hussy !  We  might  ha'  been  robbed  an' 
murdered  for  all  you  care.' 

20 


306  DORSET  DEAR 

"  The  man  turned  round  laughin'  as  impident  as  ye  like. 
He  was  a  Irishman,  Mrs.  Cross — I  could  tell  it  the  very 
minute  I  clapped  eyes  on  his  face,  afore  he  so  much  as 
opened  his  mouth,  and  when  he  did  begin  to  speak,  Lard 
ha'  mercy  me !  I  never  did  hear  sick  languidge." 

"  Swearin'  an'  that  ? "  questioned  Mrs.  Cross,  with  her 
head  on  one  side. 

"  Oh  no,  nothin'  o'  that  sort,  but  sick  a  queer,  ignorant 
fayshion  o'  talkin'.  '  The  top  o'  the  mornin'  to  ye,  ma'am/ 
says  he.  '  Is  it  murther  ye' re  talkin'  of?  Sure,  how  could 
I  be  afther  murtherin'  ye  when  ye  weren't  here  ? '  he  says. 
'  Don't  ye  be  afeerd,'  he  went  on — I  can't  really  remember 
his  queer  talk,  but  he  said  he  had  come  over  harvestin'  an' 
then  got  laid  up  wi'  a  fever,  an'  was  a  long  time  in  hospital, 
and  now,  he  said,  he  was  on  his  way  to  see  a  friend  who 
had  been  in  the  hospital  at  the  same  time,  and  after  that 
he  had  the  promise  of  work. 

"  A  reg'lar  cock-and-bull  story  ;  I  didn't  believe  a  word 
on't  I  did  tell  en  so. 

"'Why  be  ye  a-trapsin'  the  roads  then,'  says  I,  '  if  you've 
a-been  invited  to  stay  with  a  friend  ? ' 

" '  I  missed  my  road,'  says  he,  '  I  took  the  wrong  turn  ; 
I  shan't  get  there  till  night  now,'  he  says.  '  I'm  a  bit 
weak  still  with  being  sick  so  long,  and  it'll  take  me  all 
my  time  to  get  there.' 

" '  You'd  best  be  startin'  then,'  says  I,  p'intin'  to  the 
door.  Then  if  ye'll  believe  it  that  little  impident  maid 
ups  and  interferes. 

" '  Oh,  ma'am,'  she  says,  '  let  him  bide  and  eat  a  bit  o' 
din  ner  wi'  us.  I'm  sure  he's  a  respectable  man,  and  it's 


"A  TERR'BLE  VOOLISH  LITTLE  MAID"       307 

Sunday  and  all.      And  there's  more  dinner  nor  we  can 
eat.' 

"Well,  I  could  ha'  shook  her — 'I'll  thank  ye,  Jenny, 
to  mind  your  own  business,'  I  says,  '  a  little  chit  like  you, 
what's  kept  for  charity.  Bain't  it  enough,'  I  says,  '  to  be 
beholden  to  I  for  every  bit  you  do  put  into  your  own 
mouth  wi'out  wantin'  to  waste  the  food  what  don't  belong 
to  ye  on  good-for-nothin'  tramps  and  idlers  ? '  I  says. 
Then  the  man  gets  up. 

" '  That'll  do,  ma'am,'  he  says,  '  I  wouldn't  touch  bite  or 
sup  of  yours,'  he  says,  'for  fear  it  'ud  stick  in  my  throat. 
Good-bye  my  dear,'  he  says  to  Jenny,  'an'  blessin's  on 
your  pretty  face  and  your  kind  heart.  Maybe  better 
times  'ull  be  comin'  for  you  as  well  as  for  me,'  he  says." 

"  Ah,"  put  in  Mrs.  Cross  excitedly,  "  he  had  summat  in 
his  mind  about  her,  you  mid  be  sure." 

Mrs.  Chaffey  threw  out  a  warning  hand  once  more  and 
pursued  her  narrative. 

"  I  did  give  the  maid  a  right-down  good  talkin'-to,  you 
mid  think,  but  it  didn't  seem  to  do  her  much  good. 

"  About  a  week  or  two  arter,  I  was  sendin'  her  to  fetch 
the  washin'  back — I  did  use  to  wash  for  a  lady  what  lived 
a  mile  away,  and  sometimes  carrier  did  fetch  it,  and  some- 
times I  did  send  Jenny.  Well,  'twas  a  heavyish  basket,  and 
when  I  did  see  her  marchin'  back  down  the  path,  I  says  to 
her: — 

" '  You've  a-been  quicker  nor  I  could  ha'  looked  for,'  I 
says. 

" '  Oh,  e-es,'  says  she,  '  somebody  helped  I  for  to  carry 
it.' 

20  * 


308  DORSET  DEAR 

" '  Somebody,'  I  says.     '  Who  ? ' 

"  She  went  quite  red,  and  opened  her  mouth  and  shut  it 
again,  and  then  she  says  very  quick  : — 

" '  Oh,  a  man  what  I  met,  as  said  it  did  seem  too  heavy 
for  I.' 

"  Ah-h-h !  "  said  Mrs.  Cross,  seizing  her  opportunity  as 
the  other  paused  for  breath,  "  it  was  him  ?  " 

Mrs.  Chaffey  resented  the  other's  eagerness  to  jump  to 
a  conclusion,  and  continued  in  a  voice  of  increased  stern- 
ness, and  without  noticing  the  interruption  : — 

"Next  day  was  a  Sunday  again.  I  wasn't  feelin'  so 
very  well,  so  I  did  tell  her  she  mid  go  to  church  that 
mornin'  an'  I'd  bide  at  home.  Well,  that  there  little  maid 
took  so  long  a-dressin'  of  herself  as  if  she  was  a  queen  ;  so 
arter  I'd  called  her  once  or  twice  I  just  went  upstairs  an' 
looked  in  at  her.  I  had  my  soft  shoes  on,  and  she  didn't 
hear  I  comin'. 

"  There  she  was,  if  you  please,  a-kneeling  before  her  bed, 
a-turnin'  of  her  head  this  way  an'  that,  an'  a-lookin'  at  her- 
self in  a  wold  lid  of  a  biscuit-box,  what  she'd  picked  up 
somewheres  an'  rubbed  up  till  it  did  seem  so  bright  as 
silver.  There  !  the  little  impident  hussy ;  she  had  stood 
it  up  against  her  pillow,  an'  she  was  a-lookin'  at  herself  an' 
a-holdin'  up  a  bit  o'  blue  ribbon,  fust  under  her  chin  an' 
then  sideways  again  her  hat. 

"'Jenny,'  I  says,  an',  dear,  to  be  sure,  how  the  voolish 
maid  did  jump ! 

" '  Lard,  ma'am,'  says  she,  '  you  did  fray  me  ! ' 

" '  What  be  doin'  there  ? '  I  axes  her  very  sharp.  '  What 
be  doin'  with  that  there  ribbon?  Where  did  you  get 


"A  TERR'BLE  VOOLISH  LITTLE  MAID"       309 

it  ? '  I  says,  for  I  knowed  very  well  she  hadn't  a  penny  of 
her  own. 

"She  went  so  red  as  a  poppy,  an'  stood  still,  gawkin'  at 
I,  wi'out  making  no  answer. 

" '  You  did  steal  it,  I  d'  'low,'  I  says,  an'  I  gives  a  kind 
of  a  scream. 

"  Then  she  did  go  white,  and  her  teeth  fair  chattered  in 
her  head. 

"  'Oh,  no,  ma'am,'  she  crie^;  '  no,  indeed.  It  be  mine, 
honest.  It  was  give  me.' 

" '  Give  ye,'  says  I.     '  Who  give  it  ?  ' 

"Then  she  did  begin  a-cryin'  and  a-rockin'  of  herself 
backwards  an'  forrads.  '  It  be  mine,'  she  sobs  ;  '  some- 
body did  give  it  to  I.' 

" '  Somebody  ! '  I  says,  an'  the  notion  come  to  I  all  to 
once.  '  It  was  never  that  man  as  you  met  on  the  road 
yesterday  ? ' 

"  Not  a  word  would  she  answer,  but  goes  on  cryin'. 

" '  Jenny  Medway,'  I  says  to  her,  '  I'll  come  to  the 
bottom  of  this  here  tale  if  I  do  have  to  call  Policeman 
Jackson  in  for  to  take  'ee  to  prison.  Tell  I  the  truth  this 
minute,  or  I'll  run  out  an'  fetch  en.  It  won't  be  the  first 
time  as  you've  met  that  man,  whoever  he  be.  Own  up,  or 
I'll  call  Jackson.' 

"  Well,  she  was  real  scared,  an'  she  ketched  hold  o'  my 
arm: — 

" '  Oh  don't,  ma'am,  don't  do  that ! '  she  says,  '  I'll  tell  'ee— 
I'll  tell  'ee.  Twas  the  man  what  did  come  to  the  door 

" '  You  wicked,  wicked  wench  ! '  I  says.  '  I  d'  'low  ye've 
a-been  meetin'  of  en  regular.' 


310  DORSET  DEAR 

" '  No,  indeed,  ma'am,'  she  cries,  '  I  never  set  eyes  on 
en  since  that  day,  till  yesterday,  when  I  did  meet  en  quite 
accidental-like — an'  he  did  offer  to  carry  my  basket  for  I, 
an'  he  did  put  his  hand  in's  pocket  an'  pull  out  this  bit  o' 
ribbon — he'd  a-been  carryin'  it  about  hopin'  to  meet  I,  he 
did  say,  for  he  did  think  it  jist  the  same  colour  as  my 
eyes.' " 

"Well!  well!  well!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Cross,  clapping 
her  hands  together  and  shaking  her  head.  "  Lard 
now !  dear  to  be  sure  !  What  nonsense-talk,  weren't  it, 
ma'am  ?  " 

"  I  did  tell  her  so  indeed,"  returned  Mrs.  Chaffey,  severely. 
"  I  did  tell  her  plain  what  I  thought  of  her — '  Courtin'  an' 
carryin'  on  wi'  a  tramp  on  the  road  ! '  I  says. 

" '  He  bain't  a  tramp,'  she  cries,  quite  in  a  temper,  if  you 
please.  '  He's  an  honest,  respectable  young  man.  He've 
a-got  good  work  now,  an'  he  be  a-lookin'  for  to  settle. ' ' 

"  Ah ! "  put  in  the  irrepressible  Mrs.  Cross.  "  He  was 
lookin'  out  for  a  wife." 

Once  more  Mrs.  Chaffey  quelled  her  with  a  glance  and 
proceeded : — 

"  '  An',  be  he  wantin'  you  to  settle  wi'  en  ? '  I  axed  the 
maid  straight  out. 

"  She  hangs  her  head,  an'  begins  a-playin'  wi'  the  but- 
tons of  her  bodice. 

" '  He  did  say  so,'  she  says,  very  low  ;  '  he  did  ax  I  to 
walk  wi'  en  an'  think  it  over — he  be  gettin'  good  wage,'  she 
says,  lookin'  up  at  me.  '  He  says  he'll  do  all  what  he  can 
for  me — I  think  I  could  like  en  very  well — I  d'  'low  he  be 
a  good  man.' " 


"A  TERR'BLE  VOOLISH  LITTLE  MAID"       311 

Mrs.  Cross  clicked  her  tongue  and  shook  her  head  with 
an  air  of  disapproval. 

"Yes,  indeed,  my  dear,"  cried  Mrs.  Chaffey  warmly, 
"  that  was  my  own  opinion.  My  dooty  did  stare  I  in  the 
face." 

" '  Put  that  there  notion  out  of  your  head,  Jenny,'  I  says 
to  her,  veiy  firm,  '  for  I'll  never  hear  on't — never ! '  I  says. 
'  If  you  was  a-thinkin'  o'  meetin'  that  idle  good-for-nothin' 
fellow  this  mornin',  you  may  give  up  the  notion.  Take  off 
your  hat,'  I  says,  '  an'  put  by  that  jacket  of  yours.  Outside 
this  house  you  don't  set  foot  this  day.  You  bide  at  home,' 
I  says." 

Mrs.  Cross  looked  dubious  at  first,  but  catching  the 
other's  severe  eye,  shook  her  head  once  more  in  an  im- 
personal way,  and  folded  her  arms  with  an  appearance  of 
great  unconcern. 

"  The  way  that  maid  did  go  on,"  pursued  Mrs.  Chaffey, 
"  was  scandalous,  quite  scandalous,  I  do  assure  'ee.  She 
cried  an'  sobbed,  and  acskally  tried  for  to  dodge  round  to 
the  door,  but  I  were  too  quick  for  her.  I  nipped  out  first, 
and  turned  the  key  in  the  lock. 

"  Well,  if  you'll  believe  me,  jist  about  dinner-time,  who 
should  come  walk  in'  up  to  the  house  as  bold  as  brass,  but 
my  gentleman  himself,  an'  before  I  could  shut  door  in's 
face  if  that  little  bold  hussy  didn't  call  out  to  en  from  the 
window  :  '  I'm  locked  in,  Mr.  Connor,  I'm  locked  in  ! ' 

" '  Locked  in,  are  ye  ? '  says  he  ;  an'  for  the  minute  I 
was  frightened  at  the  looks  of  en. 

"  If  ye'll  believe  me,  Mrs.  Cross,  the  fellow  walks  straight 
into  the  house,  makin'  no  more  o'  me  nor  if  I  wasn't  there. 


312  DORSET  DEAR 

He  pushes  past  I,  and  marches  upstairs  and  bursts  open 
the  door  o'  Jenny's  room. 

" '  Locked  in,  are  ye  ? '  he  says.  '  I'll  soon  settle  that. 
Come  down,  asthore ' — E-es,  'twas  some  such  name  as  that 
he  did  call  her — 'come  down,  asthore.  I've  a  little  word 
to  say  to  ye,  an'  I  want  this  good  lady  to  hear  it  as  well 
as  yerself 

" '  I'll  call  the  police,'  I  says.  '  I'll  call  them  in  a  minute.' 
I  says." 

"  I'd  a-done  that,  I'm  sure,"  cried  Mrs.  Cross.  "  I'm 
sure  I  would.  Housebreakin' ye  know.  Dt'dyecall  'em?" 
she  added,  as  Mrs.  Chaffey  seemed  to  hesitate. 

"  Well,  no,  my  dear,"  returned  that  lady.  "  I  did  not. 
I  was  all  shaky  an'  trembley  like.  Besides,"  she  added, 
casting  up  her  eyes,  "  I  be  always  for  peace,  Mrs.  Cross. 
'  Peace  an'  quietness,'  is  my  motto.  I  could  no  more  break 
the  law  o'  Christian  lovin'  kindness  nor — nor  anything, 
Mrs.  Cross. 

" '  Now,  Jenny,  alanna,' "  says  the  man,  '  you  an'  me 
was  talkin'  yesterday,  so  I  may  as  well  come  to  the  p'int 
at  once.  I  want  a  home,  an'  you  want  a  home.' 

" '  You  make  a  mistake,"  says  I,  '  the  girl  does  not  want 
a  home.  Jenny  has  got  a  good  home — a  better  home  nor 
she  do  deserve/  I  says. 

" '  A  pretty  home  ! '  says  he  ;  '  a  prison  !  Don't  mind 
her,  me  darlin'.  Just  look  me  in  the  face,  an'  tell  me  will 
ye  have  me  ? ' 

'"I  will,'  she  says,  so  bold  as  brass — the  little  barefaced, 
impident  wench  !  I  did  really  blush  for  her. 

" '  Then,'  says  he,  '  I'll  put  up  the  banns  on  Sunday,  an' 


"A  TERR'BLE  VOOLISH  LITTLE  MAID"       313 

the  two  of  us  'ull  be  j'ined  together  before  the  month's 
out.' 

"  Well !  To  think  of  the  chap  settlin'  everythin'  straight 
off,  an'  she  givin'  in  wi'out  so  much  as  a  question  !  I  stood 
gawkin'  at  'em  both,  wi'  my  tongue  quite  speechless. 
Then  the  chap  goes  up  to  Jenny,  and  says  he: — 

" '  I'm  sorry  we  can't  walk  out  by  ourselves,'  he  says, 
'  but  we  must  do  wi'out  that'  An'  before  my  very  eyes, 
Mrs.  Cross,  he  puts  his  arm  x  round  her  waist,  an'  kisses 
her.  '  I'll  strive  to  be  a  good  husband  to  ye,'  says 
he,  '  an'  I'll  engage  I'll  have  the  best  little  wife  in  the 
world.' 

"  Then  he  turns  round  to  I  an'  whips  off  his  hat,  jist  out 
o'  pure  impidence. 

" '  Good  mornin'  to  ye,  ma'am,'  he  says  ;  '  I'm  afraid  its 
losin'  yer  black  slave  ye'll  be.' " 

"  Oh ! "  interrupted  Mrs.  Cross,  much  scandalised. 
"  Such  a  thing  to  say." 

"E-es,  indeed,"  responded  Mrs.  Chaffey,  "an'  me  as 
had  a-been  so  good  to  her.  I  did  tell  her  so,  so  soon  as 
I'd  got  my  breath.  '  Me,  what  has  been  a  mother  to  ye,' 
I  did  tell  her,  '  that  ye  should  go  a-backbitin'  o'  I  an' 
a-sayin'  such  things.' 

" '  I  never  said  nothin',  ma'am,'  says  she. 

"  Such  a  story.  It  do  stand  to  reason  as  if  she  must  ha' 
gone  abusin'  o'  I." 

"  Maybe  he  thought  of  hissel'  you  was  a  bit  hard  on 
her,"  said  Mrs.  Cross,  struck  by  a  brilliant  idea. 

The  inspiration,  however,  was  not  a  happy  one  appar- 
ently. Mrs.  Chaffey  took  great  umbrage,  and  it  was. 


3H  DORSET  DEAR 

indeed,  some  time  before  her  neighbour  could  pacify  her 
sufficiently  to  induce  her  to  continue  her  tale. 

"  I  did  talk  to  her  kind,  an'  I  did  talk  to  her  sharp,"  she 
resumed,  in  an  aggrieved  tone.  "  But  no  ;  she  wouldn't 
hear  reason,  an'  at  last  I  did  fair  lose  patience. 

"'Well,  then,'  says  I,  'I  be  done  wi'  'ee  ;  I'll  ha'  no 
more  to  say  to  'ee  from  this  out.  If  you  do  leave  yer  good 
home,'  I  says,  '  an'  desert  one  what's  the  same  as  yer 
mother,  I  be  done  wi'  'ee.  Mark  my  words,'  I  did  tell 
her,  '  this  'ere  marriage  '11  turn  out  unlucky.  You'll  repent 
it  all  the  days  of  your  life.' " 

"  Ah ! "  said  Mrs.  Cross,  sucking  in  her  breath  with 
gruesome  relish.  "An"  she  did,  Mrs.  Chaffey,  I  should 
think.  She  did." 

"She  did  ought  to,"  returned  Mrs.  Chaffey,  impressively, 
and  paused. 

"  I  d'  'low  she  hasn't  done  so  very  well  for  herself? " 
insinuated  the  other.  "  She  hasn't  a-got  such  a  very  good 
home." 

Mrs.  Chaffey  rubbed  her  nose  and  coughed,  but  appar- 
ently did  not  feel  called  upon  to  enter  into  particulars  as 
to  the  recreant  Jenny's  domicile. 

"Her  man  be  out  o'  work  pretty  often,  I  dare  say?" 
hinted  Mrs.  Cross. 

"  Not  as  I've  heerd  on,  so  far,"  returned  her  neighbour,  in 
a  tone  which  implied  that  Mr.  Connor  would  probably  find 
himself  thrown  upon  the  world  in  a  very  short  time. 

"  Any  family,  my  dear  ?  " 

"  Two,"  replied  the  widow.  "  Two  childern,  Mrs.  Cross 
— a  boy  an'  a  girl." 


"A  TERR'BLE  VOOLISH  LITTLE  MAID"       315 

"  You  haven't  ever  seen  them,  of  course  ?  " 

"  E-es,  my  dear,"  responded  Mrs.  Chaffey,  with  a  superior 
air.  "  I  do  see  'em  two  or  three  times  a  year.  I  hain't 
one  for  to  bear  malice.  When  her  'usband  do  drive  her 
over  on  a  Bank  Holiday  I  could  never  have  the  'eart  for 
to  shut  my  door  i'  their  faces." 

"  Drive  over  !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Cross.  "  They  must  be 
free  wi'  their  dibs  to  go  throwin'  'em  about  on  car-hire." 

"  It  don't  cost  them  nothin',"  said  Mrs.  Chaffey  hastily. 
"  'Tis  their  own  trap." 

Mrs.  Cross  gasped. 

"They  keeps  a  trap  !     They  must  be  pretty  well  off." 

Seeing  that  this  remark  was  evidently  unpleasing  to  her 
new  friend,  she  obsequiously  hastened  to  allude  to  what 
she  felt  sure  must  be  a  genuine  grievance. 

"  An'  not  a  bit  grateful,  as  you  was  a-sayin'  jist  now  ! 
She  don't  remember,  I  shouldn't  think,  all  what  you've 
a-done  for  her.  She  don't  never  make  you  no  return 
I  d'  'low.  She  don't  never  give  'ee  nothin',  do  she  ? " 

"  Nothin'  to  speak  of,"  retorted  the  other,  peevishly,  and 
closed  her  mouth  with  a  snap. 

"  Such  as  half  a  dozen  fresh  eggs,  I  suppose  ?  "  suggested 
Mrs.  Cross.  "  She  wouldn't  ever  give  'ee  a  fowl  now,  would 
she?  Would  she?'  she  persisted,  as  Mrs.  Chaffey  did 
not  answer.  "  I  shouldn't  think  she'd  ever  give  'ee  a  fowl. 
Lard,  no,  not  a  fowl — would  she  ? " 

Mrs.  Chaffey  was  at  length  goaded  into  an  answer. 

"  If  she  did  it  wouldn't  be  so  very  much.  I  wouldn't 
think  meself  at  all  beholden  to  her — no,  that  I  wouldn't. 
Seein'  that  she's  got  dozens  of  'em  a-runnin'  about  her 


3i6  DORSET  DEAR 

place,  I  don't  think  I  need  be  so  very  thankful  if  she  do 
spare  a  couple  every  now  an'  then,  an'  a  ham  at  Christmas, 
wi'  all  the  pigs  they've  got." 

"  A  ham  !  "  ejaculated  Mrs.  Cross.  "  A  ham  !  Why, 
they  must  be  doin'  pretty  well ! " 

"Well — not  so  bad,"  conceded  Mrs.  Chaffey,  very  un- 
willingly. "  Connor,  he  did  take  a  kind  o'  little  farm  a  few 
year  ago,  a  kind  o'  dairy  farm.  They've  a-got  pigs  an' 
chickens  an'  sich  like — a  deal  of 'em.  I  hope  there  mayn't 
be  too  many,"  she  added  darkly.  "  I  hope  they  mayn't 
be  a-livin'  too  free  an'  a-spendin'  too  fast.  I  hope  not.  I 
hope  there  mayn't  be  a  day  o'  reckonin'  comin'." 

She  shook  her  head  in  an  ominous  manner,  and  Mrs. 
Cross  hastened  to  follow  her  example. 

"They  bain't  a-layin'  anything  by,  ye  may  be  sure," 
she  exclaimed  conclusively. 

A  kind  of  spasm  crossed  the  other  lady's  face,  and  she 
rose  hastily,  remarking  that  if  she  didn't  begin  to  straighten 
up  a  bit  she  wouldn't  get  the  house  put  to  rights  before 
bedtime. 

Mrs.  Cross  took  the  hint,  rose  likewise,  and  backed 
meditatively  towards  the  door. 

"Well,  'tis  a  strange  tale  what  you've  a-told  I,  Mrs. 
Chaffey,  an'  I  do  feel  for  ye  terr'ble.  As  for  that  there 
voolish " 

She  paused  suddenly,  a  slow  grin  dawning  on  her  face. 

"She  don't  seem  to  ha'  done  so  very  bad  for  herself, 
after  all,"  she  remarked,  and  vanished. 


SWEETBRIAR  LANE. 

"THERE  they  go,"  said  Grandmother  Legg,  "a-marchin' 
off  together  so  happy  as  a  king  and  a  queen." 

Susan  Ball,  a  visitor  from  the  town,  craned  her  head 
round  the  door-post  and  gazed  after  the  young  couple 
with  interest.  David  Samson,  a  big  broad-shouldered, 
rather  awkward  looking  young  fellow  was  walking  arm-in- 
crook  with  Rebecca  Yeatman,  Mrs.  Legg's  orphan  grand- 
daughter. A  little  slender  fair-haired  thing,  lissom  and 
graceful  in  all  her  movements  was  Rebecca — she  looked 
like  an  elf  as  she  paced  along  beside  her  cumbersome 
lover. 

"They've  a-been  a-courtin'  a  long  time,  haven't  they, 
mum  ? "  queried  Miss  Ball. 

"  They've  a-been  coortin',"  responded  Grandmother  Legg 
emphatically,  "since  they  was  no  higher  than  nothin'  at 
all.  Dear,  yes !  he'd  come  Sunday  after  Sunday  same  as  if 
they  was  reg'lar  coortin'  folk,  an'  Rebecca,  she'd  lay  down 
her  doll,  and  fetch  her  hat,  an'  walk  off  so  serious  as  a 
grown-up  maid.  Poor  Legg — he  had  all  his  senses  then 
same  as  anybody  else — he'd  laugh  fit  to  split  he  would." 

Miss  Ball  looked  towards  the  chimney  corner  where 
Grandfather  Legg  was  now  installed  and  received  from 
that  worthy  old  gentleman  a  smile  calculated  to  give  any 

317 


3i 8  DORSET  DEAR 

weak-minded  person  a  "turn,"  accompanied  by  some  un- 
intelligible remark  delivered  in  a  quavering  treble.  Miss 
Ball,  who  was  not  troubled  with  nerves,  smiled  back  at 
him  and  nodded  cheerfully. 

"  He  haven't  got  no  wits  at  all  now,  mum,  have  he  ? " 
she  inquired  parenthetically  of  Mr.  Legg's  better-half. 
"  But  we  was  a-talkin'  of  Rebecca.  I  do  'low  she  an' 
David  'ull  be  gettin'  married  one  o'  these  days?" 

Grandmother  Legg  screwed  up  her  mouth  and  shook 
her  head  dubiously. 

"  I  don't  know  I'm  sure,"  she  replied.  "  David  he's  not 
earnin'  more  nor  ten  shillin'  a  week,  nor  likely  to  for  a 
good  bit,  and  Rebecca,  she  wouldn't  be  much  good  at 
keepin'  house  on  such  a  little  money.  Tis  a  child,  Miss 
Ball,  nothin'  but  a  child.  There,  if  you  was  to  see  the 
antics  she  do  carry  on  wi'  David  !  I  do  truly  wonder  the 
chap  has  so  much  patience  wi'  her.  Sweetbriar  Lane  is 
where  they  do  always  go.  'Tis  Coortin'  Lane,  you  know 
— so  they  do  call  it  hereabouts — and  a-many  do  go  a- 
walkin'  there  of  a  Sunday  an'  they  do  tell  I  that  Rebecca 
do  seem  to  care  for  nothin'  but  teasin'  and  tormentin'  the 
poor  boy.  Mary  Vacher — e-es,  'twas  Mary — did  tell  I 
last  week  as  she  an'  her  young  man  was  a-walkin'  in 
Sweetbriar  Lane  o'  Sunday  and  she  did  see  our  little  maid 
a-playin'  all  manner  o'  tricks  on  Davy.  One  minute  she'd 
be  runnin'  round  a  haystack,  then  when  the  poor  chap  'ud 
run  after  her  she'd  trip  off  and  hide  behind  an  elder-bush. 
Mary  did  say  she'd  go  dancin'  from  one  place  to  another 
just  lettin'  him  nearly  catch  her  but  poppin'  off  the  minute 
he'd  come  close." 


SWEETBRIAR  LANE  319 

"Well,  there  now,"  commented  Susan,  "it  do  seem 
childish,  don't  it?" 

"  It  be  reg'lar  nonsense  I  do  tell  her,"  said  Mrs.  Legg 
severely ;  then  relaxing — "  but  Mary  Vacher  did  say  'twas 
really  so  good  as  a  play  to  watch  'em.  Her  an'  her  own 
young  man  stood  lookin'  arter  'em  a  long  while,  she  said. 
There,  Rebecca  'ud  go  flyin'  up  the  path  same  as  a  bird  or 
a  butterfly ;  an'  every  now  an'  again  she'd  stop  and  smile 
round  at  Davy  an'  beckon  him,  an'  off  'ud  run  poor  Davy, 
hammerin'  arter  her  so  hard  as  he  could,  an'  just  as  he'd 
be  holdin'  out  them  great  long  arms  o'  his  off  she'd  go 
again.  An'  she's  real  fond  o'  him,  mind  ye — 'tisn't  as  if 
she  looked  at  anybody  else." 

"  Ye  did  ought  to  speak  to  her  a  bit  sharp,  mum,"  said 
Miss  Ball  severely,  "you  did  ought  to  scold  her  for  it. 
They  bain't  sensible,  sich  goin's  on." 

"  Scold  her ! "  ejaculated  the  other.  "  I  mid  just  so  well 
speak  to  the  wall.  I  mid  just  so  well  expect  that  there 
settle  to  hear  reason.  She  don't  mind  me,  what's  her  own 
grandmother,  no  more  nor  if  I  was  the  cat.  She  haven't 
got  no  respect  for  nothin'.  I've  see'd  her  pinch  David's 
arm  when  they  was  a-walkin'  up  the  church  steps  one 
day " 

"  Never ! "  ejaculated  the  scandalised  Susan. 

"  She  did  though  !  And  she'll  carry  on  her  antics  up  in 
the  churchyard  yonder — you  know  the  churchyard  up 
Sweetbriar  Lane  ? — she'd  as  soon  play  off  her  tricks  there 
as  on  the  Downs.  Even  when  she  was  a  little  bit  of  a 
maid  she'd  never  run  past  the  lychgate  same  as  the  other 
children — she'd  go  a-swingin'  round  the  pillars  or  a-climbin' 


320  DORSET  DEAR 

on  the  trestles,  or  she'd  maybe  pop  through  the  gate  and 
put  her  face  up  again  the  bars  and  dare  David  to  kiss  her. 
He  dursn't  go  nigh  the  place,  poor  boy,  an'  she  knowed 
that  very  well." 

"Well,  well ! "  sighed  Susan  Ball,  "  I  wouldn't  like  to  say 
nothin'  unkind  o'  your  granddaughter,  Mrs.  Legg,  but  'tis 
to  be  hoped  as  she'll  not  come  to  a  bad  end,  mum." 

"Tis  to  be  hoped  so,"  agreed  Mrs.  Legg,  "but  there's 
no  knowin'."  She  echoed  Susan's  sigh  but  smiled  the 
while ;  indeed  it  was  evident  that  she  looked  on  the  mis- 
demeanours of  Rebecca  with  a  certain  tolerance,  one  might 
almost  say  satisfaction,  as  distinguishing  her  from  the 
ordinary  run  of  maidens. 

Meanwhile  Rebecca  and  David,  having  finished  a  some- 
what discursive  progress  up  Sweetbriar  Lane,  emerged  on 
the  Downs  beyond.  Here  Rebecca  took  up  a  position  on 
a  sunny  little  gorse-crowned  hillock  and  despatched  him  to 
a  neighbouring  copse  with  orders  to  collect  some  of  the 
wild  strawberries  which  grew  there  in  abundance. 

Nearly  a  score  of  journeys  did  David  make  to  and  from 
that  copse,  while  Rebecca  fanned  herself  with  a  beech 
branch  and  gibed  at  him  for  his  slowness. 

"  I  do  'low  you  do  eat  more  nor  you  do  pick,"  she  re- 
marked at  last. 

David  stood  stock  still,  indignant  and  disheartened. 

"  There's  no  pleasin'  ye  !  "  he  cried.  "  I  haven't  so  much 
as  ate  one." 

"  No  more  have  I  then  !  "  exclaimed  Rebecca  ;  and  up- 
lifting her  beechen  fan  she  proudly  showed  him  a  pile  of 
the  ruddy  berries  neatly  arranged  on  a  flat  stone  beside  her. 


SWEETBRIAR  LANE  321 

"  There,  you  be  to  eat  'em  all !  "  she  announced  with  an 
imperative  wave  of  the  hand,  "  I  did  save  'em  up  for  ye." 

"  You  must  have  half,"  said  he. 

But  Rebecca  shook  her  head. 

He  sat  down  beside  her  on  the  short  turf  and  placed  the 
stone  between  them. 

"  Certain  sure  you  must  have  some  of  'em,"  he  cried. 
"  I  shan't  care  to  eat  'em  if  you  don't." 

"  You  be  to  eat  'em  all,"  reiterated  Rebecca  ;  "  I'd  like 
to  watch  ye." 

"  Nay  now,  you  must  taste  one,"  said  David,  and  leaning 
forward  tenderly  he  endeavoured  to  force  one  into  her 
mouth.  But  thereupon  Rebecca  set  her  little  white  teeth, 
jerked  back  her  head,  and  uplifting  a  small  but  vigorous 
hand  slapped  his  face  with  all  her  might. 

"  I  won't  have  'em  neither  then  !  "  cried  he,  flushing  hotly 
and  clambering  to  his  feet.  "  You  do  go  too  far,  you  do." 

"  I  do  go  too  far,  do  I  ?  "  retorted  the  freakish  sprite. 
"  Let's  go  home  then." 

Too  much  wounded  to  protest,  David  turned  about  and 
walked  sulkily  beside  her  as  she  tripped  down  the  lane. 

"  A  body  never  knows  where  to  have  'ee,  maidie,"  he 
complained  after  a  pause.  "  There's  times  when  you  do 
seem  so  sweet  as  honey,  and  next  minute  I  fair  wonder  if 
you  do  care  a  pin  for  me." 

The  two  were  now  walking  under  a  hedge  so  tall  that 
it  almost  arched  over  their  heads ;  it  grew  on  the  summit 
of  the  high  bank  which  bordered  one  side  of  the  lane.  A 
serried  mass  of  greenery  was  this  hedge ;  the  star-like 
foliage  of  maple  mingling  with  the  rougher,  darker  green 

21 


322  DORSET  DEAR 

of  hazel  and  guelder,  while  amid  the  stronger  growths, 
delicate  trailing  wreaths  of  dog  rose  and  sturdy  bushes  of 
wild  sweetbriar  flourished  side  by  side.  It  was  from  this 
latter  that  the  winding  path  took  its  name.  The  sweet- 
briar,  indeed,  grew  so  freely  about  the  place  that  in  the 
summer  time  all  the  air  was  filled  with  fragrance. 

Rebecca  seemed  not  at  all  moved  by  her  lover's  lament ; 
she  gave  a  little  laugh  and  continued  the  song  she  had 
been  humming  to  herself. 

"  There's  times,"  continued  David  warmly,  "  when  I  do 
truly  think  I'd  do  better  to  go  off  and  coort  some  other 
maid." 

"  Well,  and  why  don't  ye  ?  "  inquired  Rebecca  blithely. 

"  I  don't  know  but  what  I  will,"  cried  he.  "  Most  maids 
'ud  give  ye  a  kind  word  back  when  ye  speak  'em  fair,  and 
'ud  say  thank  ye  when  ye  do  make  'em  a  present,  and  'ud 
not  go  for  to  rub  their  cheeks  after  their  sweetheart  had 
given  them  a  kiss." 

This  was  indeed  an  offence  which  Rebecca  committed 
but  too  often.  She  darted  from  him  now,  and,  approach- 
ing the  bank,  made  two  little  upward  springs  at  the  hedge, 
bringing  down  with  each  a  small  trophy.  One  was  a  wild 
rose,  the  other  a  tuft  of  sweetbriar. 

"  Look  ye,  David,"  said  she,  "  which  do  ye  like  best  of 
these  two  ? " 

"The  sweetbriar  o'  course,"  cried  he,  recovering  his 
spirits  at  once  at  what  he  took  to  be  a  sign  of  softening  on 
her  part,  and  his  face  wreathing  itself  with  smiles  as  he 
stretched  out  his  hand  for  the  little  sprig. 

Rebecca  waited  till  he  h?d  taken  hold  of  it,  and  then 


SWEETBRIAR  LANE  323 

with  a  sudden  malicious  squeeze  of  both  her  little  hands, 
pressed  his  ringers  close  about  the  prickly  stem. 

"  Ha'  done,"  cried  he  in  real  displeasure,  "  that  were  a 
spiteful  trick  and  one  as  I  didn't  expect  from  'ee,  Rebecca. 
I  d'  'low  I  will  go  off  and  ha'  done  wi'  it." 

As  he  spoke,  however,  he  fastened  the  bit  of  sweetbriar 
in  his  button-hole.  Rebecca  laughed  and  pointed  to  it. 

"  Sweetbriar  has  twice  so  many  thorns  as  wild  rose,"  said 
she,  "but  ye  like  it  best  for^all  that.  An'  if  ye  do  go 
a-courtin'  any  other  maid  'twill  be  just  the  same.  Ye'll 
come  back  to  I." 

Taking  hold  of  the  lappet  of  his  coat  she  sniffed  at  the 
little  sprig. 

"  Bain't  it  sweet  ? "  said  she. 

"'Tis  sweet  indeed,"  returned  he  earnestly,  and  em- 
boldened by  her  unwonted  softness  he  did  what  any  other 
lover  under  the  circumstances  would  have  done,  and 
Rebecca,  after  a  pause,  loosed  his  coat  and  deliberately 
polished  her  cheek  with  her  handkerchief. 

Yet  for  all  that  David  did  not  court  another  maid. 

Not  Jong  after  this  the  young  pair  were  unexpectedly 
parted.  David  had  an  uncle  who  was  a  large  sheep- 
farmer  in  Westmorland,  and  it  was  thought  by  all  his 
family  a  great  opening  for  the  lad  when  this  well-to-do 
and  childless  relative  offered  to  take  him  into  his  employ- 
ment. Every  one  rejoiced  at  David's  good  fortune  except 
David  himself  and  his  poor  little  sweetheart.  Even  he 
was  not  so  much  broken-hearted  as  Rebecca.  David 
scarcely  knew  whether  to  be  more  afflicted  or  elated  at 
the  girl's  despair. 

21  * 


324  DORSET  DEAR 

"  I  never  reckoned  you  cared  for  I  that  much,"  said  he, 
as  they  went  for  their  farewell  stroll  up  the  lane. 

She  looked  at  him  reproachfully  without  speaking,  her 
pretty  blue  eyes  were  drowned  in  tears,  her  mouth  drooped, 
her  little  face  looked  very  white  and  pitiful. 

"There  I  shouldn't  ha'  said  that."  cried  he  remorsefully. 
"  Ye  never  loved  anybody  but  me,  did  ye  ?  An'  you'll 
always  be  true — won't  ye  ?  " 

"Always!  always ! "  she  sobbed — "faithful  an'  true,  David. 
Whenever  you  do  think  of  me  you  must  always  say  that 
to  yoursel'.  Rebecca  was  a  teasin'  maid,  you  may  think,  but 
she  loved  me  an'  she'll  always  love  me — faithful  and  true." 

Then  David  in  a  kind  of  rapture  of  anguish,  felt  her 
arms  about  his  neck — such  little,  light,  slender  arms — 
and  her  golden  head  sank  upon  his  breast. 

Before  that  time  he  had  had  many  misgivings  in  think- 
ing of  the  two  years  that  must  elapse  before  they  again 
met,  and  had  wondered  to  himself  often  if  Rebecca  would 
be  likely  to  stick  to  him  when  he  was  no  longer  at  hand  ; 
but  now  all  such  ignoble  doubts  died  within  him,  and  in 
spite  of  the  knowledge  that  the  morrow  must  part  him 
from  her,  he  was  a  proud  and  happy  lad  as  he  folded  her 
in  his  arms. 

In  two  years  he  would  come  back — his  uncle  had .  said 
he  might  come  home  for  a  holiday  after  two  years.  He 
would  earn  a  lot  of  money  and  meanwhile  they  would 
write.  They  would  often  write  ;  Rebecca  wouldn't  be  too 
partic'lar  about  blots  or  spellin',  would  she  ?  No,  Rebecca 
was  not  in  the  mood  to  be  particular  about  anything. 
Then  David  would  give  his  word  to  write  often. 


SWEETBRIAR  LANE  325 

"  An'  whenever  ye  see  a  bit  o'  sweetbriar.  ye'll  think  o' 
me  ?  "  said  Rebecca. 

Yes,  he  would  think  of  her  then  and  always. 

"  I  do  want  the  sweetbriar  to  remind  you  o'  me,"  went 
on  the  girl,  "  because — because — I  reckon  it's  like  me — 
full  of  prickles.  I've  often  been  a  bad  maid  to  ye,  Davy, 
haven't  I  ?  Often  an'  often  I've  pricked  ye  and  hurt  ye, 
but  I've  loved  ye  all  the  time." 

And  thereupon  David  assured  her  he  didn't  mind  the 
prickles,  and  that  there  was  nothing  in  all  the  world  so 
sweet  as  the  sweetbriar,  and  then  having  reached  the 
top  of  the  lane  they  kissed  each  other  again  and  came 
home  through  the  scented  dusk  full  of  a  melancholy  hap- 
piness. 

The  memory  of  that  hour  comforted  David  during  the 
first  weeks  of  separation,  but  as  time  went  on  the  old 
habit  of  jealous  distrust  reasserted  itself  in  some  measure. 
Rebecca  was  a  bad  correspondent.  The  wilful  little  maid 
had  never  taken  much  pains  to  make  herself  a  scholar  and 
letter-writing  was  to  her  a  matter  of  difficulty.  David 
would  brood  over  each  scanty  ill-spelt  scrawl,  torturing 
himself  with  doubts  :  Rebecca  said  so  little — was  she 
already  beginning  to  forget  him  ?  She  was  so  pretty, 
so  gay — surely  somebody  else  would  "  snap  her  up  " 
while  his  back  was  turned. 

Yet  now  and  then  a  little  word  in  one  of  Rebecca's 
letters  would  make  his  heart  thrill  afresh  with  hope  and 
love,  and  he  would  be  filled  with  remorse  for  his  unworthy 
suspicions.  And  when  towards  the  end  of  autumn  she 
sent  him  a  sprig  of  sweetbriar  saying  that  "  it  would  mind 


326  DORSET  DEAR 

him  of  her,"  he  carried  the  thorny  trophy  in  his  breast 
till  it  shrivelled  and  fell  to  pieces. 

The  northern  winter  was  long  and  cold  and  the  lad 
thought  regretfully  many  a  time  of  genial  Dorset  with 
its  unseasonable  flowers  peeping  out  at  all  manner  of 
times,  its  gleams  of  sunshine  and  blue  sky  even  on  the 
shortest  days,  the  breeze  rushing  over  the  Downs,  mild 
for  all  its  freshness,  and  carrying  with  it  always  a  hint 
of  the  sea  not  far  distant.  He  dreamed  of  Dorset  often, 
of  his  father's  little  homestead,  of  the  farm  on  which  he 
had  used  to  work,  of  the  animals  he  had  been  wont  to 
tend,  of  the  church  to  which  he  had  betaken  himself 
Sunday  after  Sunday — but  strangely  enough,  though  he 
longed  and  almost  prayed  to  dream  of  Rebecca,  the 
vision  which  haunted  his  thoughts  by  day  kept  aloof 
from  his  pillow. 

One  night,  however,  he  did  dream  of  Rebecca,  and  his 
dream  was  so  vivid  that  he  could  hardly  believe  that  it 
was  not  indeed  reality.  He  thought  he  saw  her  standing 
in  the  sunshine  on  the  Downs  at  the  top  of  Sweetbriar 
Lane ;  he  was  toiling  up  this  lane  at  some  distance  from 
her,  running,  but  after  the  manner  of  dreams,  not  seeming 
to  make  much  progress,  and  she  kept  afar  off,  waving  one 
little  slender  arm  and  calling  : — 

"  I  want  you,  David  ! "  she  cried.  "  Davy — Davy — I 
want  you ! " 

Her  voice  was  ringing  in  his  ears  when  he  woke  ;  the 
sweat  stood  on  his  brow,  and  his  heart  was  thumping 
violently. 

"  If  she  do  want  me,  I'll  go,"  he  said. 


SWEETBRIAR  LANE  327 

It  was  not  yet  six  months  since  he  had  left  home ; 
according  to  his  contract  another  eighteen  should  elapse 
before  he  took  a  holiday,  yet  he  did  not  hesitate  for  a 
moment.  An  unendurable  longing  was  upon  him  ;  he  was 
drawn  by  an  inexplicable  force.  Without  pausing  to 
reflect  on  the  possible  consequences  which  might  ensue, 
he  rose,  dressed  and  set  forth  on  his  journey  before  any 
one,  even  in  that  early  household,  was  astir. 

He  had  but  little  money,  and  his  progress  was  neces- 
sarily slow,  his  resources  only  permitting  him  to  travel  a 
part  of  the  way  by  train.  He  walked  the  rest,  begging 
occasional  "  lifts "  from  good-natured  waggoners. 

It  was  nearly  a  week  after  that  dream  had  come  to  him 
when  he  arrived  late  one  afternoon  at  his  native  place.  So 
travel-stained  was  he,  so  haggard  and  gaunt  with  fatigue 
and  privations,  that  his  old  friends  would  have  found  it 
difficult  to  recognise  him  had  he  traversed  the  village  ; 
but  Rebecca's  home  lay  on  the  outskirts  and  he  made  his 
way  there  immediately. 

His  heart  had  been  torn  by  a  thousand  conflicting  hopes 
and  fears  during  his  long  journey.  What  if  Rebecca  did 
not  want  him  at  all  ?  What  if  she  should  laugh  at  him 
for  his  pains  ?  What  if  she  should  join  in  the  chorus  of 
disapproval  which  would,  he  knew,  greet  his  foolhardy 
undertaking  ?  His  uncle  had  probably  written  home  to 
announce  his  disappearance  ;  his  parents  would  have  plenty 
to  say  on  the  subject,  but  for  that  he  cared  little.  What 
would  Rebecca  say  ?  what  would  she  think  ?  And  then 
he  remembered  her  parting  words :  "  She'll  always  love 
me  faithful  and  true,"  and  he  seemed  again  to  feel  her 
arms  about  his  neck. 


328  DORSET  DEAR 

His  heart  leaped  up  within  him  as  he  approached  the 
cottage,  for  he  half-expected  to  see  the  elfin  shape  come 
flitting  forth  to  greet  him ;  and  then  he  chid  himself  for 
his  folly.  How  could  she  be  on  the  look-out  for  him  ?  he 
had  sent  her  no  word  of  his  coming. 

It  was  a  frosty  night,  clear  and  unusually  cold.  The 
moon  had  already  risen  and  the  sky  was  spangled  with 
stars.  He  could  see  the  withered  hollyhocks  standing 
stiff  on  either  side  of  the  whitewashed  flagged  path,  and 
observed  that  the  door  was  fast  closed.  A  little  glimmer 
of  firelight  came  through  the  kitchen  window,  but  other- 
wise there  was  no  sign  of  life  about  the  place. 

Three  strides  carried  David  up  the  garden  path  and  in 
another  instant  his  hand  rattled  at  the  latch  ;  but  the  door 
did  not  yield  to  his  hand — it  was  bolted  within  and  no 
sound  broke  the  succeeding  stillness  except  the  barking  of 
a  distant  dog  and  the  tremulous  beating  of  his  own  heart. 

"  Rebecca  ! "  he  cried.  His  voice  was  hoarse  and  his 
great  frame  trembled  like  a  leaf.  "  Rebecca !  I'm  here. 
I  be  come." 

A  shrill  cackle  from  within — Grandfather  Legg's  un- 
mistakable laugh — was  the  only  response. 

David's  hand  dropped  from  the  latch  and  he  darted  to 
the  kitchen  window  and  peered  in  the  room. 

By  the  dim  light  of  the  fire  he  could  make  out  the  old 
man's  form  in  its  accustomed  place,  and  rapped  sharply 
at  the  pane. 

"  Eh  ? "  cried  Grandfather  Legg. 

"  Be  every  one  out  ? "  shouted  David.  "  Where's  Re- 
becca?" 


SWEETBRIAR  LANE  329 

The  old  man  leaned  forward  so  that  the  firelight  fell 
full  upon  his  shrivelled  face;  his  habitually  vacant  eyes 
wore  a  cunning  look  and  he  laughed  again,  as  though 
amused  by  some  secret  joke. 

David  uplifted  his  voice  once  more  and  in  his  excite- 
ment shook  the  little  casement.  "Look  at  me!"  he 
cried.  "Don't  ye  know  me,  Mr.  Legg?  It's  me — David 
Samson." 

"  Oh,  I  know  ye,"  chuckled  Mr.  Legg.  "  I  know  ye, 
David." 

"  Right ! "  cried  David,  delighted  at  having  extracted  an 
intelligible  response.  "Then  tell  me  where's  Rebecca? 
I've  come  a  long  way  to  see  her.  Which  way  has  she 
gone?  I  be  talkin'  of  Rebecca,  Mr.  Legg." 

"  E-es,"  rejoined  the  other,  still  chuckling ;  "  oh,  e-es, 
Rebecca — surely." 

"Where  is  she,  I  say?"  shouted  David. 

Grandfather  Legg  lifted  a  lean  hand  and  jerked  his 
thumb  expressively  in  the  direction  of  Sweetbriar  Lanet 

"  Rebecca,"  said  he,  "  Rebecca  be  yon."         , 

David  stepped  back  from  the  window  and  stood  a 
moment  paralysed.  The  eager  excitement  of  a  few 
moments  before  left  him  all  in  a  minute  and  he  became 
suddenly  cold.  Rebecca  was  out  at  this  hour — Rebecca 
had  gone  a-walkin'  in  Sweetbriar  Lane  with  another  man. 
That  dream  which  told  him  she  craved  for  him  was  but  a 
mockery. 

After  a  pause  he  began  to  walk  rapidly  away  in  the 
direction  indicated  by  the  old  man.  He  would  see  for 
himself;  he  would  find  Rebecca  and  tax  her  with  her 

22 


330  DORSET  DEAR 

infidelity;   he   would — here  he   drew  in  his  breath   and 
clenched  his  hands — he  would  reckon  with  the  other  fellow. 

Now  the  lane  lay  before  him,  winding  upwards  between 
its  shadowy  hedges  silent  and  deserted.  His  steps  rang 
sharply  on  the  frozen  surface ;  deep  shadows  lay  beneath 
the  hedgerows  but  the  path  itself  gleamed  silvery  white  in 
the  moonlight  Up,  up — there  was  never  a  soul  in  sight 
— if  Grandfather  Legg  spoke  truth  Rebecca  must  have 
wandered  on  a  long  way  with  that  new  sweetheart  of  hers. 
He  pressed  forward  with  what  speed  he  might,  he  would 
come  upon  them  sooner  or  later  and  then  ! 

Yonder  at  the  turn  of  the  lane,  the  outline  of  the  lych- 
gate  was  visible,  and,  topping  the  churchyard  wall  the  dark 
heads  of  a  group  of  cypresses ;  his  eyes  wandered  absently 
over  them,  insensibly  taking  note  of  how  bravely  the  frost- 
encased  needles  gleamed ;  the  hoar  lay  thick  on  the  ancient 
tiles  of  the  lychgate  roof  too,  and  even  edged  the  time-worn 
pillars  which  supported  it.  As  he  brought  his  absent  gaze 
down  to  these  pillars  he  saw  a  face  peep  out  at  him  from 
behind  one.  The  moonlight  fell  full  upon  it  and  he  recog- 
nised at  once  that  it  was  Rebecca's.  Very  small  and  pale 
it  looked,  and  yet  it  wore  a  smile,  tender  and  a  little  sad. 

David  with  an  inarticulate  cry  rushed  towards  her.  But 
before  he  could  reach  it  the  little  figure  came  gliding  forth 
from  its  ambush  and  went  fluttering  up  the  path  before 
him  as  it  had  so  often  done  in  former  days.  She  paused 
every  now  and  then  to  turn  round  with  the  arch  smile 
which  he  knew  so  well,  and  to  beckon,  but  she  spoke  no 
word,  and  her  feet  fell  so  lightly  on  the  stony  track  that 
they  made  no  sound.  She  wore  a  cotton  dress  familiar  to 


SWEETBRIAR  LANE  331 

David,  and  no  wrap  of  any  kind  in  spite  of  the  cold  ;  her 
fair  hair,  too,  glistened  in  the  silvery  light  unshaded  by  a  hat. 

"  Rebecca !  Rebecca ! "  cried  David,  lumbering  in  pursuit 
of  her,  a  prey  to  such  a  tumult  of  emotions '  that  he  almost 
wept.  "  Rebecca,  come  back,  love.  I  came  because  ye 
did  call  me.  Ye  must  have  a  word  to  say  to  me  sure. 
Ye'll  never  go  for  to  treat  me  so  foolish  now  I  have  come 
all  this  way  to  see  ye." 

But  the  little  figure  only  waved  its  arms  for  all  response 
and  went  gliding  on — on,  always  out  of  reach,  now  lost  to 
sight  at  the  turn  of  the  lane,  now  in  obedience  to  some 
such  freakish  impulse  as  had  often  roused  his  ire  long  ago, 
darting  behind  a  clump  of  bushes,  now  peering  down  at 
him  from  the  top  of  a  high  bank.  Always  tantalising, 
always  elusive,  but  his  own  Rebecca  for  jail  that — his 
Rebecca  who  had  never  given  a  thought  to  any  other  man. 
She  would  surely  soon  tire  of  her  play  and  run  to  his  arms. 

Here  were  the  Downs  at  last,  and  Rebecca,  as  though  in 
answer  to  his  yearning,  paused,  turning  towards  him  and 
beckoning.  For  a  moment  he  saw  her  thus  almost  as  he 
had  seen  her  in  his  dream,  save  that  the  light  which  bathed 
her  slight  figure  was  not  the  noonday  glow  of  his  fancy 
but  the  ethereal  radiance  of  the  winter's  night,  and  that  no 
word  passed  her  smiling  lips.  As  he  gazed  upon  her  the 
dream  powerlessness  came  upon  him,  his  feet  remained 
rooted  to  the  ground,  his  arms  hung  useless  by  his  side,  he 
tried  to  call  her  name  aloud  but  his  tongue  clove  to  his 
palate.  Only  a  moment  did  this  nightmare-like  oppression 
endure  and  then,  with  a  cry,  he  rushed  towards  the  spot 
where  she  had  stood — but  Rebecca  had  vanished. 

22* 


332  DORSET  DEAR 

His  arms  closed  upon  the  empty  air,  his  dazzled  eyes 
beheld  only  the  frost-bound  Downs,  the  clump  of  firs 
against  which  he  had  seen  her  form  outlined — there  was 
no  trace  of  her  anywhere.  Calling  upon  her  frantically, 
first  in  anger,  then  with  anguish,  then  in  wild  terror,  he 
searched  about  the  place,  but  all  was  silence — desolation. 

He  came  down  the  hilly  path  at  last  slowly,  looking 
neither  to  right  nor  to  left,  his  head  sunk  upon  his  breast 
and  his  figure  swaying. 

Here  was  the  bank  where  she  had  picked  that  sprig  of 
sweetbriar  to  which  she  had  likened  herself;  the  leafless 
bush  coated  with  frost  like  its  fellows  gave  forth  no  per- 
fume as  he  passed,  and  he  did  not  even  pause. 

Now  the  lychgate  came  in  sight  once  more,  and  David 
quickening  his  pace  ran  unsteadily  towards  it.  The  gate 
yielded  to  his  hand,  but  no  fairy  form  lay  in  ambush 
behind  it,  no  arch  mocking  face  peered  at  him  through 
the  bars.  Yet  as  it  swung  to  behind  him  David  stood  still, 
catching  his  breath  with  a  gasp  ;  a  rush  of  overpowering 
perfume  greeted  his  nostrils,  here  in  the  dead  of  the 
winter's  night  the  frozen  air  was  heavy  with  the  scent 
of  sweetbriar.  As  he  staggered  forward  with  a  choking 
cry  his  feet  sank  deep  in  the  soft  mould  of  a  newly-made 
grave. 


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